


invisible string

by taotu



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, California, Dancer Zuko, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mention of Past Sex Under the Influence, Minor Aang/Katara, Minor Mai/Ty Lee (Avatar), Minor Suki/Yue, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, San Francisco Bay Area, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, nonbinary toph
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 105,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taotu/pseuds/taotu
Summary: Sokka sighs, folds his arms so he can rest his chin on them. “Aang?”“Mhm?”“Can you Google—listen closely, this exact wording—how to get over your dream woman who is also the love of your life when it’s been three months but you’re still hung up on her and now she lives next door so she’s virtually inescapable and there’s no way to get her back ‘cos she’s dating your ex and is definitely not into you?”-Sokka was dumped by Suki. But they're still friends! And it's fine, he'sfine. She's now dating his other ex, which is also just dandy. But really, Sokka's not fine, and while he might as well spend his last year of college pining after Suki, he'll be damned if she—or anyone else—knows that. Enter Zuko.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 550
Kudos: 1387





	1. 01 - sad songs in the summer

**Author's Note:**

> apparently this is what happens when you hate 90% of your college experience: you graduate and find yourself writing a tropey, cathartic nostalgia piece with ATLA characters titled after a taylor swift song ( _who would've thought_ )!
> 
> some pretty liberal ~age-bending~ going on here:  
> Sokka, Zuko, Aang, Suki, Mai, Ty Lee, and Yue are all seniors;  
> Katara and Toph are juniors;  
> Azula is a sophomore
> 
> enjoy ♥

“Lay it all on me.”

“Okay.” Aang sighs, slides his paper schedule onto the coffee table and flattens it out with the palms of his hands. It makes the table wobble between its two shorter legs, but they both ignore that with intent. They couldn’t have expected much else, cherrypicking it off the curb outside a Taco Bell, and all. “SAS 140: India’s Great Epics,” Aang reads. “We’re reading both the _Mahabharata_ and the _Ramayana!_ And… I heard the professor was easy.”

Sokka blinks. “Okay, fair.”

“MCB 30: Your Brain On Drugs.”

That makes Sokka squint. “That’s a class that exists?”

Aang pouts deeply at the paper. “Well, I did enroll in it, so it’d better.”

Sokka considers this. “Fine. Keep going.”

“CS 190: Computability and Complexity. That’s the one—”

“We’re in together,” Sokka finishes for him. “Yeah, fine. Keep going. You haven’t scared me yet.”

“Sorry, Sokka. I didn’t realize the entirety of my education was for your entertainment.” Aang looks at him blankly.

“Good thing you’re catching on, buddy.” Sokka smiles and reaches out to pat the top of Aang’s freshly-shaven head, but he dodges it with ease, swiping his schedule from the table and kicking his legs over the chair’s armrest.

“Then I have my philosophy thesis seminar,” Aang mutters, biting the tip of his tongue. “And—oh! I weaseled my way into this philosophy grad seminar.” He grins, fingers crinkling the edges of the paper. Katara won’t be happy about that. “It’s called—wait for it— _The Infinite_.”

“Of course you weaseled,” Sokka huffs. “You’re the best ass-kisser I know.” Sokka cranes his arm out for Aang’s schedule. “And of course you’d take a class that sounds like a Marvel trilogy.”

Aang gives Sokka that ever-stoic blink of his, but hands his schedule over. “I’ll have you know I kissed not _one_ ass, Sokka. I merely expressed my illimitable passion for the subject to the right person.” Aang smiles with the utmost innocence. Slowly, it grows. “Or people. On several occasions. Insistently. Until they let me in.”

Sokka snorts. “Right on, ass-kisser.” His eyes scan Aang’s schedule. Sokka likes to think of himself as the schedule guy—at least, he _feels_ like the schedule guy, whenever it’s Thursday night and they’re all meant to convene for KBBQ at seven pm and he’s still the only one at the table by half-past. But it’s been a habit of Katara’s since her freshman year to design and print them all neat, color-coded class schedules. These are fresh off the printer, too—Aang’s schedule is still warm between Sokka’s fingertips. What Sokka really thinks, though, is that this _need_ of Katara’s first stemmed from her fury at Sokka getting to all his classes on time and in one piece from the get-go, with only the room numbers scrawled illegibly on a Post-it, whilst she’d spent her first three weeks consistently getting lost between the same two buildings.

“Hey,” Sokka utters then. “Wait. Your drugs class is at the same time as 190.”

Aang gives Sokka an unconcerned sideways glance, and looks back at his phone. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

“But you can’t be in two places at once!” he protests, shrill. “Do you expect me to go to 190 _alone?!”_

Aang gives a roll of his eyes. “No, Sokka, relax.” He lifts a palm that’s meant to be placating. “And you won’t be alone. Suki’s taking it, too, remember?”

“I can’t relax!” Sokka slaps the schedule down on the coffee table. “You’re gonna leave me alone with _Suki?!”_

Aang looks at him, frazzled, and finally locks his phone. “I thought you two sorted everything out.”

“We did!”

“Okay, then I fail to see the prob—”

“We’re the best of friends,” Sokka asserts.

Aang stares. Then he smiles. “Well, good. I’m happy for you.”

Sokka groans, collapses back on the couch. “My point is, _Aang_ , you can’t be in two classes at once.”

“Sure I can.”

“The system shouldn’t even let you—”

“But it does. You just have to check that little box when you’re enrolling online, the one that says _I acknowledge_ —”

Sokka interrupts him with another guttural groan. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Ugh.” _This is less than ideal._

“Then there’s also my environmental science thesis seminar,” says Aang, now directly beside Sokka, schedule in his hand.

Sokka peels a single eye open. “You can’t be in six classes, Aang.”

“Sure I can.”

Sokka rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “But—!”

“Yeah, I know, the unit cap. But if you call the academic advising office and provide sufficient reasoning—”

“You’re gonna die, dude.”

“You say that every semester.” Aang rises, schedule in hand, arms spread like Christ the Redeemer. “And yet… here I stand.”

Sokka sighs, remains slumped on the couch. It’s a couch that probably needs a wash, as they bought it for twenty bucks off some sketchy guy on Facebook, and they’d only given it a cursory glance for bugs and truly concerning stains before they’d tossed a blanket over it and called it a day. Sokka smirks, folds his arms over his chest. “How are you _ever_ going to make time to woo my sister if you’re always doing classwork?”

But Aang’s already retreating toward his room. “Shut up.”

“You won’t!” Sokka calls, and it sounds like a yodel when his voice cracks. _Yes, goddammit, almost twenty-two and_ still _cracking._ His own anatomy loathes him. Sokka thinks a moment. _It must be vengeance for the nonstop beer-drinking in freshman year._ He points an accusing finger at Aang’s back. “The answer you’re looking for is _you won’t!”_

Aang slams his door closed.

Sokka smiles to himself, tips his head back against that musty couch. It’s a new luxury, the door-slamming. He and Aang have been sharing rooms since they were stuffed into the same cramped double in the school dorms three years ago. They’ve come a long way, Sokka thinks fondly, from the dorms to the musty Chi Phi house to the vegan co-op and now, to their very own apartment. Granted, their sink takes ten minutes to drain and they’re working on ridding themselves of an ant invasion and the front door lock doesn’t always click into place, leaving Sokka terrified that literally _anyone_ might waltz through their door and steal his most valuable possession—his gaming setup—but it’s _their_ shitty two-bedroom apartment that they’re paying inflated rent on, _thanks_.

The wall behind the couch starts to pulse as Aang turns his music on. Sokka, wilted across the cushions, stares at the water-stained ceiling, pictures walking into class without Aang by his side, without his ever-present buffer, knowing Suki will be there, too. Aang makes a magnificent buffer. He has plenty other redeeming qualities, sure, but he truly is a _great_ buffer. Given an awkward silence, Aang would immediately seize the opportunity, press Suki about her summer internship abroad at that prestigious biotech firm in Switzerland, keep her talking until class started. It’s something Sokka isn’t sure he can bring himself to do. Smoothly, at least. Without voice cracks.

Not that Sokka should _expect_ any awkwardness between himself and Suki. If anything, their breakup last May had been… exceptionally civil. He’d begun to anticipate something was off when Suki hadn’t wanted to sit in the window of the boba shop with him and pretend to get work done like they always had. Instead, she’d dragged him to the Eucalyptus grove on campus, made idle chitchat about finals, and sat him down at the base of a tree, where she’d waited until he’d finished most of his drink to take his hand in hers. She told him there were things she was still discovering about herself, things she couldn’t fully discover if she stayed with Sokka. And she told him that she treasured that almost-year they’d spent together—and that she’d continue to whoop his ass in algorithms if he still wanted her around. Which… _duh_.

It could’ve been so much worse, Sokka thinks. A million times worse, in fact, might still have been better than most people’s college breakups. But there’s no ignoring the fact that Sokka is set in the belief that she’s the love of his life, and spent all summer pining after her, having nightly dreams about her, hopelessly stalking her on social media, making eager but _friendly_ online conversation for the few hours in a day that their timezones overlapped because they were still _friends_ , after all. That’s what Suki had wanted. To stay friends. And she’s showing no signs of wavering on that front.

 _I’m incurable_. Sokka rubs his forefinger and thumb into his eyelids.

There’s an abrupt knock on the door. If anything, it’s pretty damn violent, rattling the paper-thin wall like it should be followed by a shout: _Police! Open the door!_

Instead: “Open up! We come bearing food!”

Sokka tugs his hood over his head, counts to three under the darkness of the fabric before releasing it and clearing his throat. “It’s broken!” he calls. “I mean—open. Goddammit.” He sits up in time for Toph and Katara to barrel through the doorway with brown paper bags on every arm in sight.

Sokka, forcing a smile through his melancholy, bangs his fist on Aang’s wall.

Aang appears at his door, looking grumpy. “What?” But he spots Katara and lights up like a switch.

“Toph found this sushi joint that gives you _half off_ if you just pay in cash,” Katara states, and with Toph, she piles the kitchen counter full of bags.

Aang and Sokka exchange an amused look. Without delay, Toph points a finger into the vagueness between them. “Don’t make that face, Sokka. Yes, we’re putting cash straight in a money launderer’s pocket, but you’ll be counting your blessings at the end of the day when you’re less indebted to me than you could’ve been.”

Sokka blinks, rising to his feet and holding his hands up in surrender. “I made no faces.”

Toph sniffs, then leans into the counter. “Smells like patheticalness in here.”

“I’m sure that’s not a word, but Sokka just used the bathroom like ten minutes ago,” mutters Aang and moves to hover by Katara, unloading the bags. “Are those cucumber rolls for me?”

“Who’re you, Merriam-Webster?” Toph spits. “And obviously. No one else here eats water wrapped in seaweed.”

Shortly, they’re all sat around the unstable coffee table, and Aang’s on his second cucumber roll. “When’a you woommates movin’ in?” he asks around a mouthful, chopsticks practically still in his mouth.

“I still don’t like the fact that you’ve never met them in person,” Sokka declares, painstakingly dissolving wasabi into his soy sauce. Toph and Katara’s apartment is next door, an identical layout to theirs… with a working lock.

Katara snorts, glances Toph’s way. “Believe me, you have nothing to be worried about. I swear, this girl is more worried about us that we are about her. She pretty much asked for our life stories—I swear she ran background checks on us to corroborate everything we said—and scanned and sent us her _passport_ with all the important numbers redacted.”

“Don’t forget the bank statement,” says Toph as they kick their legs up on the table. “She sent a fucking bank statement, not just to the landlord, but to _us_ , as proof of income. And… damn, it was _a_ bank statement. I don’t know why she’s bringing another roommate with her to cram in that fucking apartment of ours, much less moving into this Walnut Street craphole. Bet she could afford a San Francisco penthouse and have a driver bring her to campus everyday.”

Katara only smirks, so it must be no exaggeration. “Great,” Sokka says airily. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

“Me neither.” Toph grins. “I’m pretty much in love with her. She’s the reason Katara and I get to live here for dirt cheap compared to you two in your _bachelor pad._ ”

“Mmhm.” Sokka eyes Toph, wads up all the pickled ginger between his chopsticks. “You keep on slandering the bachelor pad, and we’ll see how you feel about your little setup after a month of Katara’s five-am alarms. You might come to find yourself _grateful_ our lock doesn’t work, _and_ that we have a couch with no visible cockroaches.”

Warily, Katara looks down at the blanket she sits on.

Toph snickers. “Wait, your lock doesn’t work?”

* * *

Sokka is knee-deep in a game of Skyrim and only registers a last-ditch effort on Aang’s part when he feels one side of his headphones lift so Aang can scream directly into his eardrum: _“SOKKA!”_

Sokka’s hands fly off his keyboard and he turns in a full circle in his rolling chair before his bewildered eyes settle on Aang standing a foot away. He drags his headphones down to his neck, blinking in a flurry. “What?” he demands.

Aang is wearing a gingham oven mitt… to hold a bag of Sokka’s beef jerky. “You put this on my shelf in the kitchen.”

Sokka lifts a brow. He knows they have rules, but Aang is never this petty. He rubs at his ear, grimacing. “And you couldn’t just put it on mine and spare me the premature hearing loss?”

Aang smiles placidly, then, and lays the beef jerky on Sokka’s desk. “I came in here to tell you there’s a moving truck outside.”

Sokka goggles. “A _truck?”_

“And movers.”

Sokka and Aang kneel at their second-story window to watch a pair of movers unload a long, velvet sofa from the back of a U-Haul. “What the fuck,” whispers Sokka, and Aang laughs.

“Good luck getting that up the stairs.”

“Just wait. I bet you twenty bucks the next thing they pull out of there is a decorative leopard statue.”

Sokka has to be grateful Aang doesn’t wait long enough to see the bet through, because the next thing someone hauls out is a shiny red stand mixer. There’s commotion in the hall, and naturally, Aang gravitates to it, opening the door and grinning into the hubbub. “Hello, new neighbors!”

Sokka peers backward at the door, where Katara has appeared to attempt to shove Aang back into their apartment. She looks stressed, has that little agitated crinkle between her eyebrows that Sokka knows well, but Aang is taller than any of them and pretty damn solid, so he doesn’t budge. Sokka hears snatches of what she’s muttering to him, though, and at _Don’t tell Sokka yet_ , he simply has to stand and pipe up. “Don’t tell me what?”

He and Katara lock eyes, and hers widen just in time for Aang to gasp and exclaim, _“Suki!”_

Sokka’s heart drops out of his ass.

“Wait—no way! Hi, Aang! What the fuck!”

Through the doorway, Sokka sees the ever-familiar figure of Suki as she sets a cardboard box down on the floor, wraps Aang in a tight squeeze. He feels his legs move mechanically toward the door, but he sure as hell isn’t controlling them himself.

Suki fans her fingers out toward Aang, a hand on her hip. Her hair is freshly cropped to her jaw, and her red lipstick matches both her top and biker shorts. Sokka’s throat closes up. Suki gushes, “So you’re next door? I should’ve known when I saw Katara—” She spots Sokka awkwardly looming. Her smile widens good-naturedly. “Sokka! Oh my fucking god, what are the odds?” She launches at him, arms around his waist. Sokka, meanwhile, hopes she can’t feel the rapid hammering of his heart as he oscillates between looking with dire panic at Aang and looking with dire panic at Katara. “I mean, where Aang is, so are you, so. I don’t know what else I expected. I missed you!” Before Sokka can properly hug her back, she’s already drawing away, looking him over and squeezing at his upper arms. “Wow, you’re looking good, aren’t you, big guy?”

Sokka flushes freakishly, hands still hovering at his sides. “Hey,” is the first thing he croaks since his world exploded into a billion little pieces not even a minute ago. “So, you’re—you’re moving—?”

Suki nods quickly, draws back to lift the box from the floor. “Yup! I—wow, seriously though, what are the odds? I let my roommate do all the figuring-shit-out over the summer since I was away, and she’s good at it, but, like… wow.” She smiles at them all in turn. “It’s so good to see you all.”

“You, too,” Katara says kindly, and Aang fist-pumps and trills, “Now you, me, and Sokka can have problem set parties!” which makes Sokka’s gaze wither.

“So,” Sokka starts, “your roommate is—?”

“Me.” A girl appears at Suki’s side. A girl with a menacingly pointed widow’s peak and pointed eyeliner to match, someone Sokka swore he’d never again cross paths with. She smiles at them all with a vicious sort of curl to her lip, carrying nothing but her phone, and edges closer to Suki when a mover makes his way past in the narrow hallway. She’s smiling, at least, until she lays her eyes on Sokka and they grow cold. “Sokka,” she greets, monotone.

Sokka can’t really fight the cringe that makes its way across his face.

Katara, who’s plastered herself to the side of the doorframe opposite Aang, asks, “Do you know each other?” as Suki gapes at her roommate, breathing, “You know Sokka?!”

“From my internship last year. We worked together,” she answers drily, not shy about glaring Sokka’s way. She looks at Katara, says, “You I know, courtesy of Facebook Messenger,” then extends her hand to Aang. “Azula. Pleasure.”

Suki shakes her head, seemingly marveling at the otherworldly coincidence of it all.

“ _You’re_ the rich roommate?” Sokka utters, delayed. Katara kicks him in the ankle, subtle. Azula, on the other hand, merely cackles and tips her head back.

“Oh, Sokka. It always did take you a bit longer than most,” she drawls, taking Suki’s elbow. “Come on, we need to get out of the way if we ever want the couch brought up.” She puts on a smile for the three piled into the doorway. “We’ll just be next door.”

Suki adjusts the box in her arms so she can give them a rapid, wide-eyed wave. “Let’s hang out tonight, okay?” Then she disappears down the hall with Azula. Subsequently, Aang, Katara, and Sokka are left to watch as the movers struggle past with the velvet couch.

Aang and Katara say nothing, but mirror one another as they swivel slowly to look at Sokka.

Sokka rubs the back of his neck. “I feel like I need to be intubated.”

Aang and Sokka arrive next door later that night bearing housewarming gifts of cheap red wine they’d purchased on a Safeway run an hour earlier. Azula pointedly pops open a bottle of her own bringing, but there’s enough long-stem, crystal glasses to go around, so Sokka has to feel smug as he pours his ten-dollar wine into a fifty-dollar glass and sips it with his pinkie up in Azula’s line of sight.

After being prodded about it for long enough, Sokka shares how he and Azula had interned at the same startup two summers ago, respectively doing software engineering and project management on the same team, and how she’d made his life a living hell for twelve weeks. He isn’t shy about stating that. Azula only rolls her eyes—she didn’t care then, and she doesn’t care now. And when Suki curiously points out that Azula’s only a sophomore, _so how did she get an internship of_ that _caliber before starting college?_ , Azula shrugs and waves it off. Sokka’s eye twitches and he swallows down the remaining contents of his glass. Of course he’d had his ass handed to him by a seventeen year old.

Aang, as predicted, asks after Suki’s brilliant summer in Switzerland. To say she perks up would be an understatement.

She passes her phone around to show them the clear blue waters and green mountains she hiked by. And Sokka hates that he can _feel_ himself mooning over her but can’t bring himself to stop. She’s sat right beside him, and once he’s two glasses deep, there’s nothing keeping Sokka from hugging his knee to his chest, resting his chin atop it, and simply _looking_ at her. Aang will give him shit about it later, genuinely castigate him—something like _you have to respect her decision, Sokka_ —but for now, Sokka’s missed her and her bubbliness and the way she still sits with her legs sprawled. It’s Sokka’s turn to swipe through the pictures—scenery that looks like stock photos, pictures of a grinning Suki in a white lab coat and protective goggles, giving the camera a peace sign, another at a Swiss chocolate tasting—but he must go one too far, and he feels his enduring, dreamy smile twist into a confused frown. Sokka looks up; Suki chatters on, and everyone else listens, enraptured, everyone except Azula, who smiles at him slyly. Sokka had always thought it a facade, the way Azula’s penetrating stare always seems to scream _I know something you don’t_ , but she may very well.

Suki senses their silent exchange and cuts herself off.

Sokka blinks, first at Azula, then at Suki. Then at the phone. He says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Suki says swiftly. Meekly, Sokka hands her phone over.

“Switzerland looked nice,” he says with a sheepish smile, and Suki sighs.

“Surprise,” murmurs Azula, tapping a manicured fingertip against her cheek. Suki glowers at her.

She turns toward Sokka, eyes sincere, and moves his empty glass out of the way so she can touch her hand to his leg and squeeze. “Sokka, we were still trying to figure out a way to tell you.”

In Sokka’s peripheral vision, Aang leans nearer to Toph, whispers, “What’s going on?” Toph answers with a smack to his chest and an exaggerated shrug.

Sokka might feel a tad like the walls are closing in on him, crushing his eyes out of his head, with an audience to boot. Suki’s phone is on the floor between them, screen still lit with the same picture: Suki, on a patch of grass, arms wrapped snugly around a girl with braided white-blonde hair seated between her legs. Yue, that is. Yue, in Suki’s arms, on the receiving end of a smooch to the cheek. It’s the ambitious crossover Sokka had never thought to expect, not in any universe, when it’s really not so farfetched. And it feels like a blow to his chest when it really shouldn’t.

He’s not sure how long he’s been silent, but when he gathers himself, he does it fast. “Tell me what? That you’re—are you together? I mean, that’s not something you really owed me, though, you know? It’s a cute picture! You look really happy together!” He points at her phone, smile bright.

It’s clear as day that Suki sees right through him, but she gives him an apologetic smile.

“Anyway,” says Sokka, still gesturing vaguely to the air, “it’s not, like… You don’t need my _blessing_ , or anything. Obviously! And I only dated Yue for, like, two months. That was in _freshman year_. That’s, like… _millennia_ ago. You wouldn’t’ve even wanted to know me then, Suki. Trust me. Freshman Year Sokka?” He sweeps his fingers by his throat, shaking his head. “Kind of the worst.”

“You were kind of a dick,” Aang muses. At this, the rest of the room comes into focus for Sokka.

Suki smiles, but it’s wobbly. “You’re not mad?”

Sokka thinks he’d be the worst person in the world if he could even fathom being mad at Suki. “No,” breathes Sokka, chuckling. “No. Of course not.”

“Okay.” Tentatively, Suki bites her lip, scans the faces of the four others. “Okay, well—surprise indeed, you guys. I’ve kinda been thinking about it a long, long time, but it’s still a sort of recent development, so, uh… I think I’m gay?” She shrugs, smiling with all her teeth on show. “And I’m seeing someone.”

 _“Yes!”_ Toph hollers, shooting a fist into the air. “Oh, thank _fuck_. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t make it through the year, stuck with just Miss Straightie over here.” Toph flaps her hand at Katara.

Katara smiles, on the tail-end of an eye-roll. “I think what Toph means to say is we’re really happy for you, Suki.”

Azula sits up, as if they’re playing a round-robin game and it’s her turn to speak. “Well, _I_ already knew.”

Aang squats between Sokka and Suki, a hand on each of their shoulders. He moves like a ghost sometimes, Sokka swears it. “So you’re dating Yue?” Aang asks Suki, eager, and grins when she offers him her phone. He goes ham at zooming in on the picture, cooing and making ridiculous, endeared faces. “I don’t remember that much about her, except I always thought she was too cool for Freshman Year Sokka. Sorry, man.” Aang blocks Sokka’s threatening swat to his shoulder. “And that she came over once a few days after she’d bleached her whole head and she said her scalp was super flaky.”

“Of course you’d remember that,” Sokka mutters.

Suki laughs. “Her scalp is better now, Aang, don’t you worry.”

“Aces.” Aang gives the photo one last zoom and bequeaths the phone to Suki.

Toph waves their empty glass around. “Someone refill this! And not with the shit Sokka brought. We need a proper toast. A toast to sapphism.”

Azula takes the liberty of fulfilling Toph’s request with her swanky wine. “To sapphism!”

Sokka joins in the toast with an empty glass, but nevertheless he joins. He’s pretty sure he’s done drinking for the night.

* * *

Aang eases the door shut behind him. He locks it. And it works—this time.

Sokka flops onto the couch, facedown. He can sense that Aang’s loitering, and when he turns his head in the slightest, he sees him, smile hesitant and hands in the pockets of his jogger pants.

“You okay?” he asks, kneeling to Sokka’s eye level.

Sokka turns his face to the cushions again. “Ah, I see. You’re wondering how I’m coming to terms with the fact that I turned both my ex-girlfriends gay, and they’re now dating each other.”

Aang sits on the edge of the couch by Sokka’s hip. “You didn’t _turn them gay_ , Sokka.”

Sokka groans. “Well, maybe not, but it’s _twice_ now that I’ve been the last dude one of my exes dated.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Aang probably thinks of Sokka’s crisis the summer after freshman year, when Yue had gone Instagram-official with her then-girlfriend for Pride. “That’s a pretty definite statement, dude. Everyone’s on their own path of self-discovery. You were just a little part of both their paths! For all you know, they could still date other people, people that aren’t—”

“I’m the fucking poster child for disappointing women!”

“But you and Suki had a great time together! She told you herself.”

Sokka says nothing to that, not at first.

Aang rubs his upper back. Sokka hates that he knows him so well. “Wine was a bad idea,” Aang says quietly, maybe to himself, maybe not.

Sokka sighs, folds his arms so he can rest his chin on them. “Aang?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you Google—listen closely, this exact wording— _how to get over your dream woman who is also the love of your life when it’s been three months but you’re still hung up on her and now she lives next door so she’s virtually inescapable and there’s no way to get her back ‘cos she’s dating your ex and is definitely not into you_?”

Aang hesitates, then exhales. “Sorry, buddy. It’s just time. It’ll take time.” He squeezes Sokka’s shoulder. “It might help, actually, seeing that she’s moved on.”

Deep down—no, not _that_ deep, it’s pretty close to the surface—he knows that Aang is right. Sokka stares out their window at the orange sheen cast by the streetlight against the deep blue backdrop of the night. Aang doesn’t go anywhere, just shifts to plant his elbows on his knees. “Do you think she noticed?” Sokka asks, forlorn.

“Your pining?” Aang says, way too instantaneous for Sokka’s liking. That just about answers it. There isn’t much that goes over Suki’s head.

* * *

It becomes surprisingly easy for Sokka to put his love life dilemma on the back burner when classes start up not two days later and he’s booked from morning until evening—with meal breaks painstakingly penciled in, obviously. But he goes to class, follows the professors to their offices to practice licking boot the way only Aang can, leads a staff meeting for his small army of teaching assistants of the CS 166: Operating Systems course. He holds the honorable title of (undoubtedly overworked) Head TA this semester, which means if something goes wrong, the students will point their fingers at the professor, but the professor will point her finger at Sokka. He can already see it now: rolling out of bed at half past four in the morning, having rolled in only an hour earlier, to debug student error messages or handle chaos on the class’ online forum.

During the TA meeting, from the very back-most row of the room, Aang shoots Sokka a thumbs-up that makes him stumble mid-sentence. Because Aang also fucking TAs for 166. Someday scientists—perhaps Sokka himself—will peek inside his brain and figure out just how he excels in subjects not even remotely similar to his fields of study. But Sokka can’t begrudge Aang beating him at his own game; they’d taught together the semester prior, and Sokka saw firsthand that Aang truly was a spectacular instructor.

Spectacular, that is, if he stays on topic. Students would often become curious about his _“I don’t actually study this but I think it’s awesome so I’ll teach it!”_ schtick and get him going on environmental justice or pacifism or anything distinctly _not_ operating systems.

On their way out of the meeting, Aang swings an arm across Sokka’s shoulders. “Great meeting, boss.”

Sokka squints against the late-August sun, considers this, fingers curled around his backpack straps. “As much as _boss_ has a ring to it, sounds a little too tyrannical.”

“Tyrannical,” echoes Aang, thoughtful. Then he clears his throat, visibly rewinds, and knocks the wind out of Sokka. Again. He really underestimates his strength. “Great meeting, _cutie_.” Aang is far too pleased with himself as he pinches at Sokka’s cheek and wiggles it.

“I am very cute,” mutters Sokka as he pries Aang’s hand away, “revision accepted. Oh—right after 190, we’re doing a push day with Toph. We can drop off our stuff at home and walk to the gym together.”

Aang blinks, nods slowly. “After 190. Should work.”

“Perfecto.”

Then Aang starts to drift from his side, heading toward a staircase leading in a direction precisely perpendicular to the route to CS 190.

Sokka stops in his tracks. “ _Aang_.”

Aang turns to peer at him, seemingly clueless. “Hm?”

Sokka looks at him vacantly. “We have class. Right now. _Together_.”

“Oh, I know.” Aang smiles, takes a backward step. “But I have my drugs class, too!” He turns. “See you, Sokka!”

Sokka is spiteful. And late to 190.

 _And_ on the professor’s bad side already, because Suki’s saved both him and Aang seats in the front row, so Sokka has to amble past a hundred seated people to the front of the lecture hall at four minutes past the hour. He slips into the seat beside Suki, who only sneaks him a smile, amused.

Sokka’s head is spinning by the time they make it out of class. “I hate proofs,” he breathes. “Why did I take another class with proofs?”

Suki laughs, gives Sokka a sideways hug. “Because _I_ love proofs, and you’re a masochist. Where’s Aang?”

Sokka pouts at his feet as they saunter together down the broad steps outside the building. “Some class about drugs.”

Suki side-eyes him and snorts. “Should’ve guessed.”

“Hello, Sokka.”

Sokka would mutter a prayer under his breath but he doesn’t know any. Seated on the nearest bench is Azula, legs crossed like they’ve just entered her office and… not the vicinity of a public bench. Beside her is Yue who, at the sight of Suki, slams shut a thick textbook in her lap, stands up, and sweeps her long white hair over her shoulder.

“Azula, old pal,” Sokka says, edging nearer. Azula really ought to be nicer to him, Sokka thinks, considering she’s the blatant third wheel of the trio before him. He gives Yue an awkward wave. “Hey, you. Long time no see.”

Yue’s jaw drops playfully as she gives him a once-over, unconsciously weaving her fingers with Suki’s. It’s endearing. Gut-wrenching, too, maybe, but Sokka’s probably being dramatic. “Sokka! Look at you!”

Suki chuckles. “That’s what I said.”

“Shucks, I’m blushing,” says Sokka, and he does a bit, until he meets Azula’s eyes again. He swears she’s like… what a boner-killer is to boners. But to any pleasant feelings.

“We need to catch up,” says Yue, which, well. It’s a sweet sentiment—he remembers her being sweet like that. And Sokka might agree if her mere presence didn’t dredge up memories of his own freshman-year idiocy. “We were just gonna get dinner, do you want to come?”

Sokka’s first instinct is to look at Suki, who smiles encouragingly with a slight tilt of her head. She even mouths _“Please,”_ and the fact that she still seems to want him around is enough to make his chest sting. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with Azula, who’s still on the bench. _Looming_ just about encapsulates her presence in a word.

“I’d love to,” Sokka says, half-smiling, “but I have somewhere to be, sorry. Some other time, though! Somebody clearly needs to keep Azula company with you two lovebirds around, ha.”

“Ha, ha,” intones Azula, tightening her ponytail. Yue laughs, high and tinkling like a wind chime. Suki gives him a knowing smirk that Sokka thinks might mean _you’re going to regret that_.

“We’ll get you sometime, Sokka,” Suki states, eyes deviously sparkling. She’s tucked her phone into her overalls pocket so she can hold Yue’s hand with both her own. “I know where you live.”

“As do I,” mutters Azula, already turning on her heel. It’s a silent signal for Suki and Yue, because they smile sheepishly at him.

He stands by the bench, watches as they jog to catch up, hand in hand. It’s an awfully wistful display on his part. Then he sets off for home.

* * *

“O-oh, Jesus fuck.”

The first thing Sokka sees when he steps through the front door is Toph on their couch, arms folded behind their head, feet kicked up on the coffee table beside their cane.

Toph doesn’t flinch at Sokka’s exclamation. The bare soles of their feet are brownish, and it makes Sokka wonder if it’s because he forgot to vacuum after they’d moved in. “You were right about the broken lock,” Toph says, turning their head toward the golden-hour sun pouring in through the window. “Is Aang there with you?”

Sokka has to glance backward to check. Aang could’ve snuck up on him easily enough. “Nope,” he mutters, bumps the door shut with his hip.

“He’s late. You’re both late.”

“I was _held up_ ,” Sokka huffs, shuffling to the fridge in search of milk. He grimaces warily when he nearly goes for Aang’s oat milk, and shoves it to the back in search of cow’s milk. “Aang is… I have no idea where Aang is. Both our classes ended twenty minutes ago. But I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

Toph sighs deeply, cracks their toe knuckles. “I guess I’m just overexcited to hear the noise you make when I finally bench more than you.”

Sokka almost spews backwash straight into the milk carton, which… gross. _“What_? _”_

“I know how you like to slack off in the summer. You go hard all spring to get your goddamn _summer bod_ , whatever that means, and the moment summer hits, you’re done.”

Sokka is indignant. He must paint quite a picture, standing there in the kitchen with his backpack still on, mouth agape, milk mustache and all. “That is—mostly untrue!” He points accusingly at Toph. “I work out in the summer! Sometimes!”

“You don’t understand, Sokka. I can _hear_ it. I can _hear_ the weakness in your voice. And when I hear it I have, like… these psychic visions of you at your internship doing what all the tech jerks do—rolling in money and sitting on their asses and eating free snacks.”

Sokka makes a choked noise, slams the milk carton down so he can screw the cap back on. Viciously. “So that’s what you think of me, huh?” He narrows his eyes, purses his lips. He knows Toph is just gibing, but… _well, it’s not_ that _far off._ Not that Sokka gets to luxuriate in his fat internship checks when he has rent to pay. “We’ll settle this on the bench.” He digs his pointer finger into the countertop.

“If Aang ever comes,” Toph mutters. “Can’t really spot you, can I.”

Sokka returns the milk to the fridge. “Nope. But you do always scare me into making it to the last rep.”

A key fiddles in the rickety lock, and both their heads swivel toward the door.

There’s a muffled, _“I think it’s open,”_ from the hall, and Aang promptly shoulders his way in. He grinningly lifts his hand at Sokka and Toph, holds the door open with his foot for… some stranger. Sokka arches an eyebrow.

“Just put your stuff wherever,” says Aang, and he heads straight for the living room, to the windowsill where the few bongs and pipes Sokka and Aang own between them are lined up like trophies on a shelf. _Really classy, guys,_ Katara had said when she’d first laid eyes on their _decor_ , but she’d gone silent when Sokka had asked her what the difference was between leaving them in the open and stuffing them in the closet (like she did with hers).

“Dude,” Sokka says, looking between Aang and his friend? acquaintance? who’s yet to say a word or make eye contact with Sokka. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, with hair to match that almost covers his eyes.

“Hm?” Aang glances over his shoulder, bong in hand. “Oh! My bad! Zuko, that’s Sokka. He lives here. We TA together. And that’s Toph, they live next door. Sokka, Toph, this is Zuko.”

This _Zuko_ nods at them both. Aang sinks to a squat on the floor beside the wobbly coffee table. This isn’t the first time Aang’s dragged randos into their shared space with minimal introduction, so Sokka is less surprised than he is confused.

“Hi,” says Toph, sitting up. “So anyway, are we—”

 _“We TA together?”_ Sokka bursts out. “Three years of friendship and that’s all you have to say about me?!” When Aang freezes and stares his way, it gives Sokka a few seconds to process. “Eh,” he follows, deflated, “I guess you only keep me around for my sister anyway.”

Toph laughs, but stops short, sniffing the air. “Is that weed?”

Aang pats the spot on the floor beside him and Zuko sits down. Innocently, Aang then smiles at both Sokka and Toph as he twists his grinder between his hands. “Yup!”

Sokka leans his hip into the kitchen counter. “Aang.”

“Mhm?”

“We were going,” Sokka says, slowing his words down, “to go. To the gym.”

Aang blinks a few times. “ _Ohhh_. Oh, right. Well, we can do that tomorrow, can’t we?” He smiles hopefully, eyes passing over Sokka, Toph, and Zuko.

Sokka scoffs, throws his hands into the air. “That is _not_ the mindset we wanna start the year off with, man! Come on, Toph, back me up here!” And Sokka, being ever the logical one, knows they won’t ever make it to the gym as the next day is Friday.

Toph purses their lips, head lolling back against the couch. They jab a finger out in Aang’s direction. “Are you sharing?”

Aang turns questioningly to his new buddy. “Why not,” Zuko says, and his voice is husky, but not low, in a way. Sokka squints at him.

Toph sets their feet on the coffee table again. “Fuck it. Sorry, Sokka.”

Sokka is motionless, obstinate… absolutely not pouting. For a while, he watches Aang pack the bowl, ignores the unalluring waggle of Aang’s eyebrows as he does, and then: “Well, I’m not going alone.” He goes to settle on the couch beside Toph, who gives him a conciliatory pat to the leg.

A half-hour later, Sokka is positively baked. Aang’s friend Zuko has taken Toph’s spot beside him on the couch, as Aang and Toph have both made their way to the kitchen. Aang’s wrestling with his off-brand Nutribullet, trying to blend things Sokka thinks shouldn’t go together, even in this state. Toph has tried several times already to convince Aang to add his weird snap pea chips—or at _least_ the abomination that is his jar of wheat germ—to the mixture, but Aang has stood his ground thus far.

The air seems to pulse around Sokka. He groans, laces his fingers over his stomach. “The sound of the blender gives me flashbacks to the vegan co-op,” he whimpers.

“Did you live there?” Zuko asks. Sokka thinks it’s the third thing he’s said since his arrival, and his voice is even rougher. Further away, even, though he’s two feet from Sokka. Sokka lifts his head, sees Zuko’s staring at the ceiling, so he does, too.

“Yeah.” Sokka shakes his head. “Veganism, man. I almost died. I’d just pass out, like, _all_ the time.”

Zuko snorts. “Clearly didn’t eat enough vegetables.”

“A man can only have so many,” Sokka grumbles, but a smile pulls at his lips. “Hey, watch this.” He raises his voice. “Aang! Aang, are you vegan or something?”

Aang stops the blender. “Friends, not food!” he calls, lifting a peace sign, then resumes blending.

From the corner of his eye, Sokka watches Zuko’s lips twitch in some vague illusion of a smile. But it just _isn’t_. A smile, that is. Sokka restrains the urge to harrumph.

“Where’d you come from, anyway?” Sokka asks blankly. _Don’t be so rude, Sokka!_ his inner Katara reprimands, but she’s not _really_ here, is she? He trains his eyes on Zuko’s face, inspecting him; his hair is tousled, somewhere between artfully purposeful and _I just don’t give a shit_ , and there’s a scar extending from left eye to ear, skin faded-pinkish and puckered.

Zuko doesn’t seem put-off by Sokka’s tone. “I don’t know. I was just in class. Aang sat next to me. I said I liked his tattoo. Now I’m here.” When his eyes flicker to Sokka, Sokka feels caught-out. _But for what?_

“ _You’re_ in the drug class!” Sokka says with all the satisfaction of a master sleuth. He grins, but Zuko’s too stoic to mirror it, the asshole.

“Yeah.” Zuko looks at the ceiling again. “Aang got upset. He was expecting more than a syllabus review and some lecture on the human brain.”

Aang, with Toph on his arm, lowers himself to the floor opposite them. On the table, he places a tall glass filled with murky purple smoothie. “All _I_ wanted was to hear about this professor dude’s experiences on ayahuasca,” states Aang as he pops the metal straw in his mouth. “But it’s all the way at the end of the syllabus!” He smacks his lips, evaluates the taste of his concoction. Wrinkles his nose. “Then I asked Zuko if he had any ayahuasca brew on him. A joke, obviously. But he had weed instead!”

Sokka lifts a brow. “And then you were instant friends and lived happily ever after.”

Aang smiles at Zuko, toasts him with his purple drink. “Pretty much.”

Zuko huffs a laugh, or maybe he just breathes. Sokka can’t be sure, it’s all incredibly subtle.

“Great,” Sokka sighs. “That’s great.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls through an endless stream of Slack notifications that blurs before his eyes. Beside him, Zuko sits up like lightning, staring down Sokka’s phone.

“Is that the time?” he breathes, then digs his fingers into his eyes. “Fuck. _Fuck_.” He uses Sokka’s leg to hoist himself up, swipes his bag up off the floor.

“You have somewhere to be?” Aang holds his smoothie out for Zuko. “Have a sip. It’ll clear your head.”

Zuko gives Aang a skeptical look. Ultimately, he does not accept the offer. “Yeah, I have, uh—Spirit. Spirit practice. First of the semester. Not, like, _spirit_ as in cheerleading, but—”

“Nah, we know Spirit! The dance team!” Sokka says jovially. “Right, Aang? We went to that one competition last year? Right? When they lost?”

“Yeah!” Aang says around his straw, then squints into the ether over Sokka’s shoulder. “Who do we know in Spirit again?”

Zuko is unamused. “Okay, bye.”

“Oh, bye, Zuko!” Aang sings. “I’ll miss you!”

“You’ll see me in class on Tuesday,” Zuko says, halfway through the door.

“Not if I find you before then!” Aang points out.

The moment after Zuko’s slammed the door shut, Toph reaches out for Aang’s head, knocks their fist against it. “ _Who do we know in Spirit?_ You don’t have nearly as many friends as you think you do. Suki, you fucking dunderheads. Suki’s on the dance team.”

Aang gasps in revelation, turns toward Sokka, wide-eyed. “I wonder if Zuko knows Suki!”

Sokka grunts, leans back on the couch. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Aang and Toph look unconvinced, but neither calls him out.

He shouldn’t care, after all, about Suki.

That’s not to say one shouldn’t care about one’s friends! One should just… care less, Sokka thinks, that little (but significant) bit less that sets a friend and more-than-friend apart. Less, at least, than whatever malignant, tangled mess of feelings sits in Sokka’s chest like a stubborn cyst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)


	2. 02 - dionysus

Saturday night finds Sokka in the “game room” of their school’s only “residential college.” “Game room,” as in there’s a singular pool table at the edge of an expansive, carpeted room that looks like it’s been doused in watery beer a few too many times, and “residential college,” as in the dorm where the richest—and/or the most conservative—students congregate to live apart from the plebeians. Sokka knows effectively no one there, but Toph had insisted they stop by, as Toph has connections up the wazoo when it comes to people with money (less tolerance for conservatism, though). The game room is dimly-lit but for a few of those rinky-dink rotating rainbow lights, and Sokka lingers by the door, alone but for the dubious mixed drink Toph’s overenthusiastic friend Bumi had poured him. In one corner, Aang and Katara are already both tipsy and pretending not to flirt with each other, but Sokka’s expectations are low. At the end of the night, nothing ever happens between them. Toph’s disappeared somewhere into the rest of the hall with that strange friend, and Sokka would go in search of them for some company was he not already rooted to his spot, observing the people dancing, among them Yue and Suki grinding playfully to _Broccoli_ blaring through the speakers. No one’s there to smack some sense into him, so he watches, only budging to let strangers pass in and out of the game room. He takes a sip of his drink, mouth twisting against the taste of vodka buried in Gatorade. _Damn, I’m too old for this, aren’t I?_

“Is she your ex?”

Sokka comes dangerously close to pouring blue Gatorade down his white shirt. His eyes come into focus on Zuko, who’s leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed over his chest.

He blinks. _“Zuko?!”_

Zuko looks at Sokka from the corners of his eyes, then lifts his brows somewhere under his hair as if to say _duh_.

“Do you live here?” Sokka asks, intrigued. There’s something about Zuko that screams _rich_ , but he’s not sure what exactly. Maybe it’s the Doc Martens.

Zuko snorts. “No. Aang… Aang _called_ me,” he says. “Nobody ever calls me.”

Sokka chuckles into his cup. “He does that.”

“Yeah. He called me. Several times, ’til I picked up, and asked me to meet him here. All the doors need keycards to get in, but, like, some weirdo let me in anyway.” He shakes his head. “I can see he’s busy, though.” They both look toward Aang and Katara. They’re side by side at a window thrown open to the night, elbows on the windowsill, Aang’s head bowed in laughter.

Sokka hums sagely, gesturing with his cup. “There’s a rule you’ve yet to learn, young Zuko. It’s called _never go out with Aang and expect to hang out with him if Katara is there_.”

Zuko huffs. “She’s your sister, I’m guessing.”

“Yup.” Sokka swallows another gulp of his vile drink. His gaze drifts, with a certain inevitability, to Suki and Yue.

Zuko says nothing. Sokka wouldn’t know what to say either. They stand in silent solitude long enough for the song to change again, now to Taio Cruz’s _Dynamite_. It makes Suki bounce in place with glee, and Yue steps back, palms pressed together, purportedly begging Suki to freestyle. Sokka sighs. He’d forgotten how good a dancer Suki was— _is_ , dance team, and all. Whatever the glee is that overcomes Suki and her dancer’s instincts, though, Zuko is impervious to it. Sokka eyes him, unsure if he’d rather have Zuko’s unspoken solidarity or stand alone and pine.

“You asked if she was my ex,” Sokka says, a bit stupidly, because apparently he wants to talk about it now. “The answer is… yes, and yes.”

Zuko stares a moment, registering. “Oh.” Then he laughs—at least, the closest thing Sokka’s seen to a proper laugh from Zuko. “That’s, um… that’s rough, buddy.”

Considering Sokka was the one who brought it up this second time, he’s suddenly irrationally pissed off. “It _is_ rough. _Buddy_.”

Zuko ducks his head. When he pulls what looks like a tube of mini M&Ms from his pocket, it almost sets Sokka ablaze, thinking Zuko will try to offer him _colorful chocolate candies in this trying time_. But all Zuko does is shake a tightly-rolled joint out of the tube and stick it between his lips. Then he looks questioningly at Sokka. “Wanna go outside?”

They go to the parking lot. Zuko sits on the ground by the brick wall, Sokka paces to and fro on the concrete, and they pass the joint back and forth until it’s nothing but a roach. Zuko isn’t the world’s greatest therapist—doesn’t ask Sokka any introspective questions or give advice, doesn’t offer _anything_ , for that matter—but he’s still a somewhat-comforting, probably-inattentive presence while Sokka smokes and coughs his way through his rant; how he’d first met Suki in Discrete Math in sophomore year, how they’ve been in classes together ever since, how Sokka finally gathered the guts to ask her out at the end of sophomore year only for Suki to ask him first, how she’d come to visit him at home during winter break their junior year and how Sokka’s dad had adored her.

“And I know it was only, like, a _year_ that we actually dated—don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty long in my book—but I’ve pretty much loved her for _two_ and it feels like the last two full years of my life have just been _shattered!_ I’m gonna look back on _half_ of my entire college experience and remember only _heartbreak!”_ Sokka wails, throwing his hands up toward the yellow glow of the streetlamp. Like he’s done twenty times already, he looks to Zuko for validation, counts himself lucky there’s a chance he won’t remember tomorrow that he’d poured all of this on a near-stranger. “Maybe I _should_ go to grad school,” he whispers, an afterthought. “Dilute… the heartbreak.”

Zuko exhales a curl of smoke through his nose, blinks lazily. “But you’re only heartbroken right now.” Oh, _now_ he chooses to pitch in, Sokka thinks. “You can’t think of it as time wasted if, at the time, you didn’t feel like you were wasting it.” Zuko’s eyes go out of focus, then, and he drops his head back against the brick. “God, I sound like Uncle.”

Sokka’s lips purse sourly, but he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. It’s a message from Katara, so he opens it immediately, brings his phone up close to his eyes.

_Saturday 11:13pm_

**the sororal unit**

Toph says to please come to Bumi’s room. It’s 303. They also say to tell you he’s making Jägerbombs (??). And Aang says to please bring Zuko (sp?) with you.

Sokka arches an eyebrow. _Always so direct_. He responds with _k_ and starts toward the dorm’s doors, waving for Zuko to follow. “We’re having Jägerbombs in Bumi’s room. Three-oh-three.”

“Who?” Zuko staggers to his feet, wobbly, and Sokka starts to laugh. “Shut up,” mutters Zuko, but seconds later Sokka gets his just deserts when he distractedly walks into the post with the accessibility door button on it.

Sokka whimpers in pain, watches the doors swing open slowly for Zuko, who strides in all smug as if he hadn’t just been struggling for a footing on flat ground.

They’re on the stairs, Sokka lagging a few steps behind, when Zuko says, “Sorry I’m shit at relationship advice.”

Sokka lifts his gaze to the back of Zuko’s head, slows unconsciously. Then he quickly hops the few steps to catch up to Zuko. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, slapping Zuko on the shoulder. “Regardless, I… I appreciate having your ear.” He frowns, stops on the topmost stair. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Zuko spares Sokka a perplexed look. He evidently gives up on him, taking Sokka by the elbow and hauling him into the hallway. 310, 309, 308…

“I appreciate you _lending me your ear!”_ Sokka exclaims and stomps the floor victoriously when they reach 303. “That’s it, isn’t it? Isn’t that it?”

“Christ,” Zuko whispers and knocks rapidly on the door. The sound bounces around inside Sokka’s skull like a rubber ball.

As expected, Bumi’s room is massive, none of the fake wood bunkbeds of Sokka and Aang’s dorm days in sight. Zuko says something about the bathroom and disappears from Sokka’s side, just in time for Sokka to be on the receiving end of a jolly and crushing hug from Aang, who then hounds him over to where Bumi—whose hair sticks up in all possible directions—is experimenting with liquor.

Naturally, though, Aang and Katara gravitate to one another, leaving Sokka with Bumi. Sokka can only stand to converse with him for so long, probably because he himself is so fucked up that all of Bumi’s outlandish conversation starters go right over Sokka’s head. He must feel so positively blessed when he catches sight of Suki’s familiar, friendly face that he outright screams “SUKI!”

Suki laughs, moves under Sokka’s proffered arm to give him a squeeze. “We thought we’d lost you!” she says, rubbing his back, as Yue pops up in Sokka’s field of vision again. Sokka laments, then, that he’s really as fucked up as he is, because Yue’s suggestion of a catch-up session ends up just being Sokka prattling some nonsense about his summer internship and him holding onto maybe two words of Yue’s spiel about switching her major to Astrophysics since they last saw each other. He’s reached that point in the night where his attention span lasts exactly five seconds, and it’s during one of those five-second intervals that he finds himself smiling at Suki, wondering how it could be possible to miss someone so much whilst they stand _right there_. Like most things, this doesn’t go over Suki’s head, and she plants her palm on Sokka’s face, shoving him away gently.

“I think you need some water, Sokka,” she murmurs, then reaches for Yue’s hand. “We’ll go find some for you, okay? Stay right here.” She single-handedly manhandles Sokka into sitting on the edge of Bumi’s head, then gives him a stern look one might give a dog when commanding it to _stay_.

Sokka almost wishes he had the sense to disobey her, because the moment she’s gone, Azula is there. Like… _poof_. Just there, smirking at him over a can of Red Bull, trapping him where he is. Instinctively, he narrows his eyes.

“Someone’s struggling to get over his old flame,” she drones. Her calculating eyes seem to examine him. Then she sits down on the bed beside him, prim and well-postured.

“I’m not _struggling_ ,” Sokka says, and even thinks to himself _wow, solid argument_. “It so happens that Suki and I broke up a long time ago, _Azula_ , and just because the existence of our relationship is news to you and I can tell you find this all _veeery_ amusing, it doesn’t mean you know everyone’s business.” He crosses his arms and stares at his shoes. “Or are entitled to it!”

Azula hums loftily, long nails tapping the aluminum between her fingers. “So you can look me in the eye and tell me you’re over Suki?”

Sokka is tempted to ask _why are you so interested_ or _why are we even having this conversation_ but something about the challenge in her eyes strikes a chord in his competitive core. He turns toward her, laying his hazy gaze on hers and muttering, “I’m over Suki.” His internal polygraph goes haywire, and Azula’s must, too. For a moment, he can only stare with resentment. Then he feels his mouth move of its own accord. “In fact, I’m seeing someone, too.”

Azula holds eye contact, impressively steady. Maybe it’s impressive to Sokka just because the room feels vaguely like it’s rotating and he’s the axis. “I don’t believe you,” she says lightly and takes a sip of her drink. Sokka’s not surprised; he wouldn’t believe himself either. “Who? Do enlighten me.”

Sokka turns away. “Eh, it’s a big school. No one you know.” His eyes wander the room aimlessly. Cowering to Azula simply isn’t an option. He’d felt, two summers ago, like he’d finally gotten the last word in when he’d pinned her as _controlling_ and _manipulative_ in his end-of-internship peer evaluation. But now there have been several words exchanged since then— _just his luck, getting her as a neighbor_ —so he can’t sit comfortably in his personal victory.

In fact, he’d rather do something immensely stupid than back down.

“You’d be surprised,” says Azula. “I know a lot of people, Sokka.”

Sokka’s nostrils flare.

He sees Zuko reemerge from… wherever it was he’d gone, and weave between Bumi and Toph, hints of distaste etched into his features.

 _Hm_.

“Zuko!” Sokka calls, and waves him over with fervor.

He’s probably had worse ideas.

Maybe.

Zuko comes as he’s summoned, which pleases Sokka. “What?” Zuko mutters, irascible, but falls silent as he locks eyes with Azula. This makes it more than likely that he misses it when Sokka mouths _just go with it_ and rises from the bed.

“Azula,” Sokka says ostentatiously, slinging his arm across Zuko’s shoulders. “Meet my… b-boyfriend.” He pats Zuko’s chest with his free hand, turns to grin at him. “Zuko!”

Zuko is slow to process this, but Azula bursts into sudden, raucous laughter. Sokka’s smile slips, just a bit.

“Oh, this is grand,” Azula sighs, and she’s patting the corners of her eyes with the sides of her hand. Sokka doubts there are any tears. “Oh, god. Zuzu, please tell me this is a joke and that you’re in on it.”

Sokka blanches. His eyes track slowly to Zuko, whom he still cradles between his arms. “ _Zuzu_?”

“I see you’ve met my sister,” Zuko says stiffly.

Sokka’s jaw drops. “You…” Head whipping between the two of them, Sokka finds it stunningly easy to see the familial resemblance.

_Oh, shit._

_Ohhh shit._

Sokka should’ve seen it coming a million miles off, but it’s only hitting him now like a frying pan to the face, which seems to be a common theme these days. “You’re related,” he says eventually, and pats Zuko’s chest again, absentminded.

“Aren’t you quick-witted,” Azula mutters, then turns her eyes on Zuko. “You’re not dating him, are you?” Her face is blank. “First of all, I would’ve known if you’d _finally_ found a guy who lives up to your ‘standards.’” She curls her fingers in air quotes. “And second,” she pauses to chuckle, “that _guy_ is not Sokka.”

Apparently, Sokka doesn’t have reason to close his mouth, because now he’s affronted. “And why not?!” he squawks.

A beat of silence later, Sokka feels a hand settle at his waist and squeeze. It grounds him, but the sheer surprise also shows in his face, which is doing nothing for the case he’s building against Azula.

Zuko says to Azula, “You’re not as omniscient as you think you are.”

“Oh really,” says Azula, unmoved. Sokka, however, is feeling pretty damn moved by this guy he barely knows now covering for his ass. He smiles at Zuko’s profile, digs his fingers into Zuko’s shoulder. He could almost kiss him out of gratitude, but he feels crossed to hell and back—he has half his weight on Zuko, who he’s pretty certain has half his weight on him—and trying for any sort of kiss would probably unravel the little charade they’ve pulled together with thin threads.

“Yeah,” Zuko responds, on the defensive, “and—don’t ask me why I wouldn’t tell you, because the _we’re family_ argument is moot. And…” He glances at Sokka, brows furrowed. “And it’s pretty new. This… thing.” His tongue darts over his lips nervously.

Sokka couldn’t have said it better himself… because, after all, there’s absolutely nothing to be said, and for making it up on the fly, Zuko is doing well enough. Not well, but well enough. Sokka looks at Azula with supreme complacency.

Azula narrows her eyes. “I’ll be asking Mai about this.”

Zuko scoffs. “Do your worst.”

A hand grasps onto Sokka’s shoulder and a bottle of Poland Spring is shoved in his face. Suki peers at him from behind it. “I _finally_ found some, god. I don’t trust the drinking vessels of admittedly kind strangers, so it took going to the seventh floor vending machines, but I didn’t have any cash on me, so we…” she trails off, lips parted, sensing her interruption. Sokka peels his hand from Zuko’s chest to take the bottle from her.

“Thanks,” he croaks, fully realizing what Zuko had christened a _thing_ had just officially expanded.

“Hi Zuko, when did you get here?” Suki says, blinking. “Azula, um… what’s happening?” She wags her finger in the air between Azula and the pair that is Sokka and Zuko, seemingly mid face-off.

Sokka doesn’t comment on how _braided_ and out-of-hand this is all getting, how inexplicably infuriating it is that _everyone_ knows _everyone_ and Sokka is _so_ behind, so Azula gets the first word in.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” She smiles wryly. “Sokka and Zuko are a _thing_.”

Suki’s eyebrows arch, and she steps back, taking the two of them in. “Wait, really?”

Zuko says nothing, so Sokka goes for casual and laughs and bats at the air with his water bottle. “Yep!” The casualness is dampened by his voice crack, but an attempt was made.

Gradually, Suki grins, then hops on and off her toes. “No fucking way, that’s so cute! Wait, since when? Zuko, did you know Sokka and I used to date? Sokka, did you know me and Zuko and Azula are all in Spirit together? And that Zuko’s a real bigwig? He’s the captain! Wait—this is _amazing_. We can go on double dates! Triple dates, even, with Mai and Ty Lee!” Suki hesitates a second, but the grin returns in full force as she grabs Azula around the shoulders. “And Azula, too, of course,” she chuckles.

It’s not the reaction Azula is expecting. Her smile sours.

“Might’ve heard about it once,” murmurs Zuko from behind a clenched jaw.

Sokka thinks he should be taking notes. _Spirit_. _Captain. May and… who?_ And meanwhile, he has to admire that Suki seems to show no fear in the face of Azula’s _I will strangle you_ glare.

Then Suki sighs, one hand on her hip and one around Azula, and shakes her head. “Wow. Honestly, this made my night, you know? The fact that I could’ve set you two up—and didn’t?” She looks at them with such fondness, and, _yeah_ , Sokka has to fight those goddamn burgeoning heart eyes again. When he truly digests what Suki’s said, though, he realizes he’s never once talked to Suki, or anyone for that matter, about dating guys. And… the thought of being _set up_ with Zuko, under anything but false pretenses, feels foreign. Weird. Makes Sokka want to sit down and have a really long _think_.

“Don’t get too excited,” Zuko says, gruff. Sokka feels the hand on his waist loosen. “It’s… pretty casual.” His eyes dart to Sokka for help.

“Yeah!” Sokka blurts, too loud, way too loud. He adds, laughing, “For all we know, we could be done by next week!”

He watches Suki’s brows draw together slightly, though her smile stays unfailing. Azula, on the other hand, gently brushes Suki’s hand off her waist. “Sounds like a solid foundation for a relationship,” Azula says, then slips past Suki. “Good night all. I’ve reached my bullshit quota for this evening.”

Suki’s eyes follow Azula’s departure. Then she smiles sheepishly at Sokka and Zuko. “Right.” She points at the water bottle. “Make sure you drink that, Sokka. I need to go find my girlfriend. We’ll talk later.” She pats Zuko on the arm as she leaves. “And I’ll see you at practice, Cap!”

The hum of music and chatter fills Sokka’s ears. Reluctantly, he turns to meet Zuko’s gaze, but he’s already being watched. Sokka doesn’t know what it is about Zuko’s golden, narrowed eyes, but he feels like he’s a disappointment. “Let’s go outside,” says Zuko, but it’s peremptory, not like the first time that night.

Sokka meanders into the parking lot, hands in his pockets. He steps under the streetlamp’s golden halo, taking in a lungful of cool air.

Zuko rounds on him immediately.

“What were you thinking?!” he growls, whirling toward Sokka with his fingers clenched around invisible… oranges, Sokka would estimate. Looks about right. Maybe grapefruits. He’d rather focus on Zuko’s hands than his fury, even if it’s the most animated Sokka’s seen Zuko in all of their four collective hours of knowing each other.

“Um…” Sokka rasps, then clears his throat. “Which part are you referring to?” He smiles uneasily.

Zuko makes an anguished sound, turns on his heel so his back is to Sokka. “All of it! All of it, Sokka.” He stops in his tracks, facing the trees bordering the parking lot. His tense shoulders slacken as Sokka hears him sigh. “Fuck.” He sounds resigned.

Sokka approaches him, fingers pressed to his temples. “So… first of all, I didn’t know Azula was your sister. Sorry.” He slows beside him.

Zuko glances at him, then back at the trees, their towering, twisting, dark silhouettes.

“Thanks for playing along, though,” Sokka says and knocks his elbow into Zuko’s side. He smiles hopefully. “I just… To be frank, your sister hates me, so I can’t really say I don’t know what I was thinking, because I do and I did, and I just wanted to prove her wrong about being hung up on Suki, and _then_ I saw you and I _lied_ and…” Zuko still hasn’t said a word, so Sokka waves his hand. “Anyway, no harm done. We’ll just say _it was never meant to be,_ yadda yadda. Suki might actually be disappointed, but—”

“No.”

Sokka’s train of thought crashes. He looks at Zuko. “Sorry?”

Zuko sighs again, shoulders deflating. “No. We can’t fake-break-up yet.”

“Oh?” Sokka drums his fingers against his chin. “Riiight, sorry— _why not?”_

“Please, just… bear with me here.”

Sokka nods faintly. “Okay. Bearing.”

Zuko folds his arms over his chest. “Azula claims I have some… _god complex_ , or something, because I’m almost twenty-two now and I’ve never in my life been in any kind of relationship and _no one is ever good enough for me_ so I’ll _rot alone forever_.”

Sokka has to admit Zuko’s imitation of his sister’s inflection is dead-on. _Years of practice, probably._ “You know that’s complete bull, right? And she’s just trying to get to you?” Sokka has to grimace. _The same way she got to me_. And he was stupid enough—or just crossed enough—to fall for it. “None of that even matters.”

“Yeah—I mean… maybe, but.” Zuko’s nose twitches. “I’m fucking tired of hearing it. I’m tired of proving her right.”

Sokka drums his fingers against his thighs. _What would Katara say?_ “You know, there are plenty of people who don’t want to date other people,” he informs, channeling his inner-sister. “Or—don’t want to have sex! Or both! It’s normal!”

He’d keep going but Zuko deadpans, “I know about the ace and aro spectrums, Sokka.” Zuko sighs out his nose. “That’s not it.”

Sokka shrugs. “Well, okay, if you really want to date someone… just being objective here, but you’re a moderately attractive guy. And a dancer. And you’re tolerable when you’re not in a rage!” He spreads his arms. “You just need to put yourself out there!”

Zuko groans, stalks away from Sokka. “It’s not that easy!” Somewhere along the way, Sokka must’ve lost touch with his inner Katara. “And that’s exactly what Azula would say!”

Sokka purses his lips. He follows Zuko tentatively, mulling over the past twenty minutes of their night. “So, essentially what you’re saying is… you want _us_ … to keep pretending to date… to get Azula off your back.” He stops once he breaches the three-foot radius around Zuko. “And, as an added bonus, I’d get everyone off my back about being eternally heartbroken! Which I am. And forever will be. But nobody needs to know that!”

Sokka watches as Zuko’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. Zuko presses a palm across his eyes. “No,” he murmurs, calm. “That’s a ridiculous idea. I’m sorry I ever suggested it.”

Sokka feels oddly let down. “It’s not ridiculous!” he protests—there goes the voice crack again—and he clamps his hand over Zuko’s shoulder, risks entering his personal bubble. “At least… it’s not beyond the realm of what _I_ find ridiculous. And would totally do.” He eyes Zuko’s profile, imploring. “If you wanted to.”

Zuko turns and gives Sokka a hard stare. It’s eerily similar to being under Azula’s scrutiny, but Sokka doesn’t mention that.

“And… whatever those ‘standards’ of yours are, I’ll have you know I make a pretty damn awesome boyfriend,” Sokka says. “I’m smart, I can cook a steak, I buy good gifts. Um—fake boyfriend, I mean. But it still applies!”

Zuko heaves a deep breath, then casts his eyes elsewhere. “I have to think about it.”

Sokka’s eyebrows lift. He withdraws his hand, but only after Zuko’s shoulder has gone hot underneath his shirt sleeve. “Okay! Okay, understandable. Take your time.”

Zuko smushes his bangs against his forehead, rubs at his eyes. “Think I’m gonna go home.”

“Want me to walk you?”

Zuko looks over his shoulder, then back at Sokka. “There’s no one around, you don’t have to—”

“Hey! I’m not in Fake Boyfriend Mode. It’s just—it’s _late_ , and we smoked, and, y’know, I don’t know where you live, maybe it’s not the safest—”

Zuko inspects him a moment longer. His lips tug upward at the left corner. “I’ll be fine.” He pockets his hands and heads toward the exit of the parking lot.

“Okay,” Sokka says, mostly to himself at this point. But he raises his voice to call after Zuko: “Get home safe! And... like I said, take your time! But not too long, because Suki kind of lives next door to me and I need to know what to say to her when she comes over to do homework tomorrow!”

He lowers himself off the balls of his feet. He’s always getting on his toes when he gets excited, it seems. Alone in the dorm parking lot, he’s left with no choice but to go check up on the wellbeing of his gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)


	3. 03 - comfort crowd

Last Night Sokka made the cardinal mistake of neglecting Suki’s advice to drink water, which can only be why This Afternoon Sokka now shoulders the consequences and wakes up an hour past noon feeling like he’s been hit with an anvil on the front and back of his head.

He feels more himself after a shower and a greasy breakfast—he checks that Aang’s not home before he pulls a pack of bacon from the so-called “meat fridge” in his room and fries up a few strips—and he’s sitting in the living room when the door opens and in comes Aang with loaded canvas totes on each arm, followed by Suki with a tray of coffees.

“Good morning, gorgeous! Look who I found! And she comes fully-equipped with the choice drug of the masses!” Aang sings, loud and unrepentant. Sokka lays his pulsing head against the couch cushions. “I smell…” Aang sets his groceries down, sniffs the air. “Pig carcass.”

“I used the fan and opened the windows like you asked,” Sokka gripes, shoving the last piece of bacon in his mouth. “There’s not much more I can do.”

Suki makes a beeline for Sokka, or the living room, rather, and slaps a thick stack of papers onto the coffee table. Then, gingerly, she places a warm paper cup in Sokka’s hand. “It’s problem set time!” She grins. Pointing at the cup, she says, “I just asked for their sweetest latte.”

Sokka eyes her skeptically and takes a sip. Warmth and sweetness and caffeine. “You’ve redeemed Aang’s screaming.” He rises from the couch, brushes past her. “I’ll go put a shirt on.”

Sokka will later find out that Suki’s stack of papers is, in fact, just three copies of the first CS 190 problem set, one for each of them. And she claims, “It’s way easier to work things this kind of stuff out on paper.”

“As long as we recycle it,” mutters Aang.

They get to work, convened around the coffee table; Sokka and Suki on the couch, Aang on an exercise ball opposite them. For four hours—almost all of Sokka’s daylight—they toil at the homework. Suki figures out most of the problems on her own, and coaches Sokka and Aang through her solutions with unsolicited (but welcomed) care. But at the end of those four hours and some fruitless digging on the internet, they still have several left blank.

“I’d say that’s enough for today,” Suki says, gathering her papers and tapping them into neat alignment. “Good progress, team! Considering, you know, it’s not due for two more weeks.”

Aang drops his pen. “ _Two weeks?_ Are you serious?” When Suki nods, Aang rolls until his back is arched over the ball, arms above his head. “Suki,” he whimpers, “you serial anti-procrastinator.” He sighs. “I forgot.”

“It’s never too late to build healthy habits.” Suki smiles and lays her homework on the coffee table, then draws her legs up to cross them underneath herself. Her eyes move to Sokka, piercing and indigo. The moment her smile goes deliberately sly and her head cocks to the side, it’s like Sokka’s been smashed by another anvil. _Right, last night…_

“So,” Suki says, sitting up tall. “You and Zuko.” She cracks her knuckles and plants her hands on her knees. “Talk to me.”

Sokka laughs weakly, feigns interest in problem 6F. “Oh, that.”

Tuning in, Aang sits back up. “What? Zuko?”

Suki gapes playfully, nudges her shoulder to Sokka’s. “You haven’t even told _Aang?”_

“Told me what!” Aang slips off the exercise ball, shoves it aside so he can smack his hands down on the coffee table and lean over it into Sokka and Suki’s space.

When Sokka looks up to find him so close, he lets out a little noise of shock. “I beg of you. Simmer down.” He places his fingertip onto the point of Aang’s forehead arrow and presses.

Aang’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t budge. “Suki, what secrets is this man harboring?” _What secrets indeed._

Suki smiles at Aang. “Have you met Zuko? I’ve known him since I joined Spirit a couple years ago. He was there last night—”

“Zuko? Of course I know Zuko. He’s my new pal! Kind of… I don’t know, mysterious, but he seems really nice.”

Suki chuckles. “Well, I have it on good authority that Sokka and Zuko are an _item_.”

It’s been a few seconds since Sokka covered his face with his hands. He groans into them and complains, muffled, “Do you have to put it like _that?_ An item?!”

“Oh, Sokka.” Suki rubs his shoulder. “Why not call it what it is? Don’t be embarrassed! It’s cute!”

Sokka peeks between his fingers and sees Aang’s countenance morph from wide-eyed to confused. “Didn’t you just meet him? On Thurs—”

Sokka cuts him short when he drops his hands to his lap, slapping his thighs, because… he’d _told_ Zuko to take his time, but the time is now up, and to Sokka, digging a deeper grave sounds easier than refilling it. So fuck taking time. “Yep, Zuko and I are dating now! Yeah, you heard that right. Yep. Can we move on? I might have idea for 6F, actually, if we’re _really_ trying to anti-procrastinate…”

Aang promptly sits down on Sokka’s other side, sandwiching Sokka between him and Suki. There’s a passing moment in which Sokka considers pulling Aang aside and confessing the truth, but then it hits him that there’s no universe in which Aang would: A, hide it from Katara, or B, enhance—or simply _not crumble_ —Sokka and Zuko’s farce. Lying isn’t one of Aang’s strong suits.

“Sokka,” Aang says solemnly, easing his sturdy arm over Sokka’s shoulders, “dude, I love you, okay? I know you _love_ to joke about how we’re only friends because of, um… the complicated feelings I have for Katara, but that’s not the whole truth, alright? Because I fucking love you, okay? And I met you first! Even if Katara vowed never to speak to me again, I’d still want you around. Everything would be boring and dull if you weren’t. I literally wouldn’t know what to do. Hell, there’s no way I’d keep taking _computer science_ classes if you weren’t suffering there with me.”

Sokka leaves his hands where they are, doesn’t come up for air. It’s a weird breed of guilt that he feels creep over him, not just about lying to his closest friends, but… about fake coming-out, which is clearly how Aang is taking this. It’s not like Sokka has ever met a guy and immediately thought _I want to date him_ , but he’s never necessarily ruled it out. So what does that mean?

“Aang,” he murmurs, but gets shushed.

“No, let me finish, I’ll be quick,” says Aang. “I’m just grateful you’re trusting me with this. Trusting us.” Aang reaches across Sokka’s back, draws Suki into the further-compressed sandwich. “And, like. We don’t have to talk about it, unless you want to. If you ever do, just tell me! But… yeah. I love you.”

Sokka drops his hands away, glances to his right to see Aang grin.

“And I’m happy for you. Zuko’s pretty hot, right? Right, Suki?”

Suki’s laugh is soft at Sokka’s left. “Oh, yeah. Just wait ’til you see him dance, Sokka.”

“Look,” Sokka says cautiously, “that’s—thanks, guys, but it’s not like this is _forever_ , you know? It’s… _super_ new.”

Aang and Suki lock eyes, and Sokka rolls his, pretends not to see the exchange.

“There’s our boy.” Aang tousles Sokka’s loose hair, then stands up. “Ever the cynic.”

“No pressure, though, obviously,” Suki adds with rub to his shoulder, and Aang points an affirmative finger gun her way.

When there’s a curt knock on the door, Sokka sees his escape. He barrels past Aang, who’s already on his feet, shouting, “I’ll get it, I’ll get it!” though it’s definitely broken and probably unlocked.

Zuko stands in the hall, staring back at Sokka. He’s in the same jeans as last night—Sokka remembers the rips in the knees, or then it’s just a common trendy thing—and a black sweatshirt.

They speak over each other.

“I didn’t have your number so I ca—”

“I wasn’t sure what you decided so I to—”

Zuko cuts himself off, looks at the floor. Sokka scratches the back of his neck. There’s a pause.

“So,” Sokka says, exhaling, “what did you decide?”

“Yes,” Zuko says. “I…” He nods quickly. “Yes. We should do it.”

Sokka melts with relief. “Good.” He swings the door open. “Because Aang and Suki are here!”

“Not for long,” says Suki, gathering her homework. “Hi, Zuko. Sorry, I’d stay, but I need to go next door. I promised your sister I’d help her with dinner tonight.”

“Zuko!” Aang slides out of the kitchen, gives Zuko a sideways hug with the arm that isn’t currently holding a frozen pizza base. “I knew you couldn’t stay away for too long.”

Zuko says nothing to Aang, sort of half-smiles into the squeeze. To Suki, however, he says, “You live with Azula?”

“Sure do!” Suki strolls over to them, problem set in hand.

“Azula lives next door?” Zuko clarifies, slower.

“Dude,” Sokka laughs, “how do you not know where your sister lives?”

Zuko frowns. “She doesn’t tell me anything.”

Suki pats Zuko on the shoulder. “Well, now you know where to find her if you need her.” She flings a thumb over her shoulder. “Right on the other side of that wall. Wait, no…” She turns in a circle, points again. “That wall. Wait—is your room through that door, Sokka? On the other side of Sokka’s wall.”

Zuko looks dizzy.

Aang calls from ten feet away where he’s fiddling with the oven, “I hope no one wants cauliflower crust pizza, because I am _probably_ going to eat the whole thing.”

Suki suppresses a snort. “Sounds scrumptious, Aang,” she mutters, then winks at Sokka as she slips out the open door. “Have a good night, my crazy kids.”

Suki shuts the door, leaving Aang with his cauliflower crust and Sokka with… Zuko. He takes Zuko’s wrist. “We’ll be in my room,” Sokka says, and Aang hums, beyond engrossed in the makings of his vegan pizza.

Sokka tugs Zuko into his room, butts the door shut. It’s utter chaos, he realizes; he still hasn’t fully unpacked his clothes and his bed is unmade and it all contrasts starkly with his pristine desk, dual monitor and all. But it’s good, this is good. It’s for the best that Zuko sees him at his worst now, while it’s still easy to pull out of their agreement. Sokka ignores the niggling thought that says this isn’t even close to his worst— _inner Katara at it again_.

“We should,” Zuko murmurs, wiggling from Sokka’s grip, “probably exchange numbers.”

Sokka goes to attempt to straighten his rumpled duvet and nods distractedly. “Yes! Yes.” From his shorts he unearths his phone, unlocks it with his face, then tosses it to Zuko, who barely catches a hold. “Just call yourself. Oh, by the way, sorry about, um.” Sokka flaps his hand at the gaping window, through which the evening sun is low in the sky, edging the buildings to the west in gold. “That. I have _not_ taken the time to go about procuring a curtain, or shades, or… anything, so.” He purses his lips, gestures at the nails he’d hammered into the wall above it that Sokka swears the landlord will never find out about. “When I change, I just hang my bedsheet on those.”

“How innovative.” Zuko has a phone in each hand, tapping simultaneously on Sokka’s and his own.

Sokka sits cross-legged on his bed, waits for Zuko to finish.

When he does, he perches on the edge of Sokka’s bed with enough room for Aang to fit comfortably between them. He holds Sokka’s phone out to him. “Here.”

Evading the proffered hand, Sokka instead loops an arm around Zuko’s waist, drags him across the sheets until they’re hip to hip. Zuko seems weirdly short this way, but his posture is questionable and his legs are clearly longer than Sokka’s. “We’re gonna need to get used to this,” says Sokka, letting him go. Thankfully, Zuko doesn’t move away. It’s already more than Sokka expected. He sets Sokka’s phone in his lap.

“I’m not good at acting,” he mumbles.

“Well, I would’ve probably gone to the theater department if I’d thought this thing through, but I didn’t,” Sokka says, leaning back into his palms. “But we’ll—we’ll practice! Enough that we’re comfortable enough doing shit like this without even thinking about it.”

Zuko’s eyebrow raise is doubtful. He looks toward Sokka’s naked window.

“So, um.” Sokka clears his throat. “I… I wanted to thank you?”

“It was my idea,” Zuko supplies, somewhere between sheepish and ashamed.

“Not for that. I mean, I’m pretty pleased about that, except my friends are being all annoying now, but…” Sokka shrugs. “Thanks for listening to my, um… cathartic rant.”

Zuko’s lips twitch into a curve.

Sokka, watching him closely, swears under his breath. “Fuck. I thought you wouldn’t remember.”

Zuko smiles faintly. “Sorry. I’d try to wipe my memory but there was some pretty useful stuff in there. Your relationship history; Yue, Suki…” He glances at Sokka. “You’re from Seattle, and your dad and his boyfriend still live there. You study, um… electrical-engineering-something-or-other. E-E-C-S.”

Sokka meets his eyes, frown thoughtful, even impressed. “You retained all that?”

“You’re surprised I was listening.”

“You just looked like you were… brooding.”

There’s a pain in Sokka’s shoulder when Zuko jabs him there, right into the muscle. “If you wore your hair like that, people would say you were brooding, too,” Zuko argues, pointing at Sokka’s hair, which hangs lank at his cheekbones.

“They would _not!_ It’s your…”

“Aura?” Zuko snorts.

“No. Fuck auras. Your _vibe_.”

Zuko shakes his head, looks at the window again. “Ty Lee would argue against that.”

Sokka brightens, points his finger into Zuko’s chest. “Hey! I remember them! Suki said we should go on a double date with them. Right? Right? See, I remember things, too.”

Zuko rubs his hand over his eyes. “Yeah. She’s in Spirit, too. I’m good friends with her girlfriend, that’s Mai. Mai doesn’t dance. But they’re both friends with Suki, and, because the world hates me, Azula.”

Sokka hisses through his teeth. “Ouch.”

Somewhere down the line, Sokka finds his way to the top of the bed, legs outstretched as he interrogates Zuko to level the playing field. He’s what Sokka would consider local, born in Monterey County. It’s a two-ish hours’ drive from campus to where Zuko’s father lives in Pebble Beach, and Sokka hasn’t yet forgotten he’d felt _rich_ vibes from Zuko. But Zuko says he rarely visits, that he’s much closer with his uncle who owns a boba shop near campus and lives in the apartment above it.

“Your _uncle_ owns The Jasmine Dragon?!” Sokka cries.

Zuko sighs. “Yes, I can get you free boba, don’t bother asking.”

“They have a line outside literally twenty-four-seven,” Sokka muses, then laughs. “Katara _will_ extort boba from you if she finds out.”

“Tell her.” Zuko’s still on the edge of Sokka’s bed, but he’s turned slightly to face him, one of his legs drawn up. He left his boots on the floor. “Uncle could be barely scraping by and he’d still give you unlimited boba if you told him your promo code was _I’m friends with Zuko_.”

Sokka lays his head back against the wall, content, fingers laced over his stomach. “I take back what I said about going to the theater department to find a fake boyfriend. You come with way more perks.”

Zuko shakes his head, rests his chin on his knee. “I think that’s where the perks end.”

“Don’t be humble. I’m supposed to brag about you.” Sokka lifts a finger, lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “And believe me, I bragged about Suki.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Eyes lingering on Zuko, Sokka thinks about the vague lesson plan he needs to throw together for tomorrow’s discussion section, about his first database class project that still lies untouched.

“I should probably go,” says Zuko, easing his legs off Sokka’s bed.

“No! Wait.”

Zuko blinks at Sokka’s aggression, but that’s really his maximal reaction.

“Um.” Sokka rubs at his jaw. “How—how far do you live?”

Zuko shrugs. “Like, way way up on the north side of campus.”

“So… what, like, a fifteen-minute walk?”

“Twenty minutes by bus.”

Sokka cringes. “Oh.” Twenty minutes would be bad enough if the city’s public transport wasn’t already so sparse and unreliable. He looks to the window, western houses now cast in shadow, sky painted pink beyond them. “What… if… okay. First, I’ll feed you—I have a very much _not_ vegan frozen pizza I can chuck in the oven, if that’s okay with you—and then, while we wait…” He smiles devilishly. “I have a plan.”

Sokka shoves his pizza in the still-warm oven. Aang is blasting psychedelic pop behind closed doors. It’s only a matter of time before they get a noise complaint, but Sokka hopes they have good karma from all the years they didn’t complain about neighbors with bricks for feet or hyperactive sex drives.

Zuko is still there on the bed, black-socked feet tucked under himself, when Sokka returns and shuts the door. “Okay.” He traipses over to the wall opposite, lays one palm flat to it, the other on his hip. “Get this: we need to move my bed against this wall.”

Zuko frowns, looks about a few light years away from getting up to help Sokka redecorate. “Why?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Sokka pitches his weight into his hand, drums a beat into the thin wall with his fingers. “As you might recall, Suki and Azula’s room is on the other side of this very wall. I know it for a fact, because I visited their apartment the other day, _and_ I can sometimes hear Azula’s voice on the other side. It’s too indecipherable to be, like, nightmares or hallucinations… _so_ …” He taps the wall again. “If we can get my _headboard_ against this, and say I loosen a few screws here and there, we destroy the springs in my mattress and jump around… Do you get where I’m going with this?”

Zuko’s frown is immovable. “No?”

Sokka sighs witheringly, wilts against the wall. A few seconds pass, and he straightens, pressing his palms together at his heart. “Zuko, we need to have fake sex against this wall.”

Sokka sees more of the whites in Zuko’s eyes than he has ever before. “What?!” Zuko chokes. “No!”

Sokka laughs, extends his arms wide. “Why not? It’ll be fun!”

“I’m not having fake sex with you!” Zuko stands up, glaring at Sokka’s bed from under that broody fringe. “It’s—it’s too soon for that.”

Sokka snorts, wanders nearer to him. “Oh, so you don’t _fake put out_ this early on? Do I need to wine and dine you first, and _then_ you’ll non-euphemistically help me bang my bed against the wall? I don’t have wine, but that pizza has a stuffed crust. It cost me eight bucks.”

“Shut up,” Zuko mutters, massages his eyelids. “It’d… just be unrealistic, okay?” He trains his eyes out the window, sour-mouthed. Sokka waits patiently for him to add, “Look, much of our—our _social circles_ overlap. _Nobody_ who knows me—least of all Azula—is going to believe I’m having sex with you if we don’t even know how to act around each other in public. Our first impression was crappy enough.”

“ _Thank_ you for finally addressing that. Honestly, I don’t know how I’ve gone this long without knowing you with all these freakish coincidences, and at this rate, I’m concerned that tomorrow I’ll find out we’re long-lost cousins and Suki is my dead mom resurrected.”

Zuko looks over at him, murderous. “Sokka.”

“Sorry.” Sokka scratches at his chin, inches closer. “Alright, alright. I see what you’re saying. Whenever you think the time is right, we’ll,” he points to the wall, “do the thing. Not—not the _actual_ thing, of course. _Duh_. We’ll execute the plan as previously outlined by me. Until then…” He smiles, innocuous, steps up to Zuko’s side in an attempt to catch his eye. “We just need to, uh. Get cozy. If it’s what you want. Since, you know, you said we don’t know how to act—”

“Yeah, fine,” Zuko interrupts. He taps his foot against the floor. “How long’s left on the pizza?”

Sokka blinks. “Uh… probably ten minutes.”

“Okay. After.”

Sokka hadn’t been entirely sure what _after_ would entail, but with the pizza eaten and Zuko sat across from him on the bed, brow creased and lips in a tight line, he has a feeling Zuko doesn’t know either.

Dusk had fallen so Sokka had tossed an extra fitted sheet on the nails above the window. Now, they sit in the glow of Sokka’s default computer screensaver and the table-less table lamp tucked beside the bed. Sokka watches Zuko chew his lower lip, then scoots decisively closer.

“Let’s… start with something simple,” Sokka suggests, drumming his fingertips together. “So, I’m thinking, we’re gonna have to know how to, like, _hug_. And maybe also—well, let’s just start with that.”

Zuko nods faintly. He scans Sokka without meeting his eyes, then mutters, “It’s kind of hard to do when we’re sitting.”

“That’s baloney.” Without missing a beat, Sokka surges at Zuko, links his arms around his neck. He doesn’t quite anticipate the force generated by his own projectile body, because Zuko grabs onto Sokka’s waist in sheer panic and they’re seconds from bouncing off the side of mattress when Sokka plants a hand on the floor to stop the momentum. Zuko’s face is an inch from his own, his head hovering fully over the edge of the mattress, and he’s tense until he realizes they’re no longer moving, then lets his head drop straight back with a groan.

“Whew,” Sokka breathes, croaking out a laugh. “That was… oops. Last time I studied physics was freshman year. Good display of core strength on your part, though!”

Zuko shakes his head. Sokka sees it in the minute movement of his chin. Then he sighs, hooks one arm firmly around the dip of Sokka’s waist, uses the other to shift them, as a unit, fully back onto the mattress. This means they’re face to face again, though, and Sokka props himself on his elbows quickly so he’s not, well, _breathing Zuko’s air_ , but it’s probably a bit unavoidable.

“This is interesting,” says Sokka, cordial.

Zuko nods, eyes fixed on the ceiling past Sokka’s head. But Sokka sees hope in the way his lips twitch; he’s learning to zone in on it. “You’re heavy,” Zuko murmurs.

“Yep.”

A beat of silence. Zuko doesn’t look at Sokka, Sokka doesn’t look at anything but Zuko.

Sokka clears his throat. “You’re entitled to throw me off whenever you feel uncomfortable, in case that wasn’t already clear.”

“Crystal,” says Zuko, quiet. Then, “Stop hovering like that.” He palms the back of Sokka’s neck, draws him in. Swiftly compliant, Sokka relaxes his arms and tucks his face into Zuko’s neck, which is instantly weird. Thirty seconds later it’s less so. But still weird.

“You smell nice,” Sokka muses, closing his eyes. Zuko is warm all over, so warm Sokka’s tempted to ask if he’s feeling feverish. And his breathing is impressively steady for having Sokka’s weight crushing all his organs. Sokka never had doubts about Suki’s strength—her kung fu training and, well, beating Sokka at arm-wrestling nine times out of ten would attest to that—but despite that, he never quite literally _laid on top of her_.

“Just so you know, there will be no—no _stop, drop, and cuddle_ like this if I see you out in public,” Zuko informs him. “I think we’re overshooting with this… practice.”

Sokka chuckles, pats Zuko on his solid chest. “ _Stop, drop, and cuddle_. Ah, you’re funny, Zuko. Maybe overshooting is right, but that’s okay. Anything compared to this will be easy-peasy.”

Zuko huffs.

Minutes pass. Zuko’s palm is spread flat on Sokka’s lower back, fingertips shifting indiscriminately. In some parallel universe, Sokka puts his fingers in Zuko’s hair, but in this universe, he suppresses that sudden, very weird and ill-advised thought. “Let’s switch,” Sokka says, flopping onto his back. “Or else I’ll fall asleep.” His reasoning becomes ironic when he shifts his head comfortably onto his pillow and yawns, wide and loud.

Zuko doesn’t follow at first. He lays where Sokka left him, watching the ceiling, then watching Sokka—everywhere but his eyes, of course. “Okay,” Zuko says, then worms his way closer. He doesn’t reciprocate and starfish over Sokka, just lays on his side, propped by his elbow, analyzing him with that unreadable mask on. There’s still half a foot between them.

On his wall’s other side, Suki’s sharp laugh echoes; all these thoughts about parallel universes, and yet he can’t imagine there _is_ one where Suki would still be there beside him, not if she’s doing what’s best for her. It pains him, and Sokka swallows, physically incapable of letting the silence stretch on longer. “See something you like?” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Or don’t like? I’m open to constructive criticism.”

Zuko’s eyes are all whites as he rolls them, smushes Sokka’s face away with a palm to the cheek. “I was just thinking,” he mutters, voice low, and moves until he’s laid his cheek to Sokka’s chest, palm to his stomach, body aligned with Sokka’s side, “about how we’re kind of stupid.”

“Ah, that,” Sokka says lightly. His fingers feel odd and isolated on the sheets, so he tucks one hand behind his head, lays the other with the utmost care over Zuko’s arm. “That’s… probably maybe more than likely. But, you know, these are the beginnings of a beautiful, symbiotic fake relationship, Zuko. What else would you spend your senior year doing? It’s the prank of a lifetime—second to faking your own death, obviously. The downside to this prank, of course, is that if we’re really good at it and we pull it off, we’ll never have the satisfaction of telling Azula it was all a sham. Her _face_ , man. It would be priceless with a capital P.”

“Sokka.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up for a second.” Zuko shifts on Sokka’s chest, curls his fingers into a fist over the softer part of Sokka’s stomach. “My cheek, like, vibrates when you talk.”

Sokka laughs. _“My cheek, like, vibrates when you talk,”_ he mocks, as breathy as he can manage (for accuracy), but Zuko reacts not.

When the alarm clock—also on the floor with the table lamp—reads ten minutes later, Sokka remembers his lesson plan, his database project. His laptop is so far out of reach, and he feels it as Zuko breathes, his chest puffing against Sokka’s ribs. He’s clearly asleep.

Sokka frowns at the ceiling, frozen in ambivalence but feeling unusually protective of his fake boyfriend who sat on a bus for twenty minutes—or worse, walked for forty—to come see him. He visualizes it; the reflection of Zuko’s broody face in the bus window, sandwiched between smelly old men and students with overflowing mounds of groceries.

And so Sokka rests a hand on Zuko’s upper back, holds him in place as he cranes his arm across the bed for his phone, just barely within reach and with 20% of his battery remaining. He turns off the lamp on the floor, and squints against the brightness of his screen as he pulls up the following week’s CS 166 discussion worksheet in Safari, formulates a lesson plan in the notes app, listens for the soft snuffle Zuko makes whenever he stirs, slumped on Sokka and still in weathered skinny jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)


	4. 04 - tongue tied

_Monday 10:43am_

**Sokka**

What time did you leave????

**zuko**

6

**Sokka**

Have mercy

**zuko**

i had class

**Sokka**

You did not have class at 6am

Impossible

Illegal

**zuko**

fine it was at 8

**Sokka**

Of course you’d sign up for 8ams

**zuko**

sorry i totally passed out

on you

**Sokka**

Dude you’re fine

So fake bf, when do I get to see you next ;)

Come on don’t leave me hanging

I will not hesitate to call you

**zuko**

sorry i had you muted

tmrw aang and i have class together u can come pick us up after

**Sokka**

WTF

Ok.

Again, Aang abandons Sokka to go learn about drugs with Zuko, and again, Sokka bids Suki goodbye after 190, leaving her in Yue’s capable hands (and Azula’s nefarious ones). He has to _jog_ up the hill of campus—not an easy feat with books and a bulky laptop strapped to his back—to ensure sure he makes it to the building before Aang and Zuko can get out of class. Alas, when he arrives, slowing his run and panting, they’re already out, standing and waiting together at the foot of the steps in conversation. Sokka has yet to be spotted, so he pinches at the collar of his shirt, lets some air in.

And it’s… weird.

He flexes his fingers, cracks his knuckles in anticipation. He shouldn’t feel like he has to warm up to hold a dude’s hand in public, _Zuko’s_ hand, but he does. Not that they’d agreed to hand-holding, but if they’re to walk all the way back to his and Aang’s together, he ought to cling to Zuko even for a _little_ bit.

Until his hand gets sweaty, maybe.

Sokka wonders what Zuko’s closet looks like. Piles and piles of black semi-distressed skinny jeans? Or just one pair he wears over and over? Either way, he looks good to Sokka’s inexpert eye, in a shirt that’s tighter across his chest. Zuko seems to favor the dark monochrome that Sokka associates with boiling even in seventy-two-degree sunlight, but Sokka will _not_ be that fake boyfriend who criticizes his partner’s fashion decisions.

He realizes he’s holding his breath when Zuko catches sight of him. “Zuko,” Sokka says on a sigh, and nods at Aang, “traitor.” Almost instantly, he senses a minuscule reticence in Zuko’s body language as he approaches, and in the last second, decides to forgo the hug in favor of kissing his cheek. It’s a whole ordeal when he nearly goes for Zuko’s lips because the fucker won’t stop staring at him, and they flinch apart, making it all the more tedious for Sokka to lean up and finally get his cheek.

Aang is unfazed. “Come on, man, as long as I can get the material down in time to do the homework with you,” he whines, hefting his bag from the ground. Meanwhile, Zuko gets to Sokka’s hand first, practically crushes his knuckles. And with the faintest of smiles on his face. “And it’s not traitorous if I do it so I can hang out with your—” He waves his hand in Zuko’s general direction, takes a few backward steps. “—your Zuko!”

Zuko’s face darkens. Sokka laughs. “ _My_ Zuko,” he baby-talks, wiggles his finger against Zuko’s cheek.

“You’ve created a monster,” Zuko mutters to Aang. And then Sokka fades into their periphery as they pick up the conversation he’d walked in on. Until they have to cross the street, Aang manages a coordinated backwards walk worthy of a tour guide, and not once do either of them address Sokka. This makes it far easier for Sokka to notice it anytime a passerby blatantly looks Zuko up and down or tries to covertly catch his eye. It becomes a game, then, of beaming down these strangers with his newly-established _eyes off the fake boyfriend_ look. When a pretty girl smiles at _Sokka_ , though, sirens go off in his head. For however long it is they’ll decide to keep this up, Sokka won’t be able to flirt with anyone for fear of Azula popping out of the nearest bush with pictorial evidence.

But he can commit! When did he ever back down from a challenge? Not in the last week, at least.

Behind closed doors, Zuko lets Sokka’s hand free of the death grip and throws his bag to the floor rather dramatically. “ _Why_ did you try to kiss me?” he demands, hands clenched over hips.

“ _You_ ,” Sokka says, “need to calm down.” He chuckles, sits on the edge of his bed. “First of all, I wasn’t going for your lips, you were acting like the fucking Mona Lisa’s eyes, I couldn’t get _away_.” He rubs the back of his wrist. “Second of all… there is no second. But I swear, I was going for the cheek, dude.”

Zuko huffs. He stands beside the door, fuming, then clears his throat. “I was thinking,” he murmurs and meanders toward Sokka’s window, where he swipes the sheet off the nails to let the early evening light in. He continues as he folds the sheet into a neat square, drapes it over the back of Sokka’s chair, “We both have our own lives, things we want and need to do. So… to make this the least stressful it can be, we should, um, schedule when we see each other. I was thinking… max twice a week, once between Monday and Thursday, once between Friday and Sunday. A couple hours, at most. Then we can just… go about our lives the rest of the time, avoid anything unexpected. And we’re—at least _I_ am—busy enough that it won’t seem weird.”

Sokka watches Zuko, silhouetted in the window, with eyes glazed over. “Damn,” he says, once he thinks Zuko’s finally done. It seems… a pragmatic move, but clearly Zuko has less fun playing this game than Sokka does. “Well, what happens if—”

“There can be rare exceptions to the twice-a-week rule,” Zuko says tersely.

Sokka tongues the inside of his cheek. He’s tempted to argue, but can’t come up with an argument that doesn’t start with _but me and Suki_. He has to remind himself they’re Sokka and Zuko, not Sokka and Suki, and that they’re not _actually_ together. So Sokka says, “Okay,” and splays out on the bed. His eyes close.

The bed dips beside him.

“We should practice,” Zuko mumbles.

Sokka doesn’t give him the satisfaction of asking _practice what, dear?_ Instead he waits out the silence, tucks an arm behind his head.

“Sokka.”

Sokka scratches at his stomach. “Hm?”

“Did you hear what I said?” The mattress springs creak, and Sokka hears the telltale _thump_ s of Zuko’s boots hitting the floor.

“Nope.”

Zuko inhales and exhales, loud and fiery, and it brings up visuals in Sokka’s mind of Aang practicing his Ujjayi breath during yoga. “We should practice.” He clears his throat. “Um… kissing. This time.”

Sokka hums with feigned interest, lifts his brows without opening his eyes. “Oh, you want to kiss me _now_ , do ya? Singing a bit of a different tune than you were five seconds ago, when you wanted _nothing_ to do with me. Couldn’t even bear the thought of seeing my face for more than two of the hundred sixty-eight hours in your busy, busy week.” Sokka cracks his eye open to find that Zuko’s affixed him with a _look_. He blinks both eyes open. “What? Also, I have a question. I got out of class at four-fifty, I met you at, say, four-fifty-three, and it’s now…” He sits up on his elbows, lifts his chin at an angle to see his floor alarm clock. “Five-ten. So, if this counts as our Monday to Thursday session, and you’d prefer to keep this to an hour, do we have forty-three minutes left before my floor turns to lava and your extremely busy schedule devours you whole?”

Zuko’s eyes bore into Sokka. Then, hugging his knees, he drops his head against the wall. “You’re fucking annoying,” he whispers. “How do you do math that fast.”

Sokka grins, kicks his shoes off. Unlike Zuko’s, aligned neatly beside the bed, they fly and hit the opposite wall. Squirming up his bed, he plants himself beside Zuko, fingers laced in his lap. “I’m fully ready to practice the art of smooching you. It’s funny, actually. Before I met Suki, I was apparently a _terrible_ kisser—I feel sorry for all my high school girlfriends—but, y’know, she bruised my ego, then whipped me into shape. Or… helped me become _less_ bad.”

Zuko shakes his head faintly, rubs the pads of his fingers into his eyelids. “Fascinating.”

Sokka chuckles, weak. “Yeah. Lucky you.” He sucks his lower lip wet, scanning Zuko’s profile. “You still wanna?”

“Oh.” Zuko lowers his knees. His fingers brush Sokka’s thigh—inadvertently—as he shifts himself on his bottom to face Sokka. “Uh, yeah.”

“Okay.” Sokka nods quickly. He looks at Zuko’s lips, thin and bitten, at his eyes, and at his lips again. And he pitches forward.

Zuko leans back, stops Sokka with a palm to the chest. “Hold up,” he mutters, lowers his hand to his lap. Sokka feels his face fill with sparks of heat, but there’s amusement in the tilt of Zuko’s mouth. “Um… okay. Just—just kiss me how you would’ve if you’d, um. If you’d kissed me outside Raiko Hall today.”

“If I’d kissed you when I saw you today,” Sokka echoes, gaze shifting between Zuko’s eyes, “Got it.”

“If I was your boyfriend,” Zuko adds, clearing his throat. “How you would’ve kissed me if I was your boyfriend.”

“Right.” Sokka chuckles again. Silence settles between them, and if Sokka focuses, he can feel the prominent pulse of his heart. He takes a breath, leans in, tilts his head to the side to press a quick peck to Zuko’s slack mouth. Then he draws back, expectant. “Yes?”

Zuko blinks, fluttery. “Yeah, yes. Um, satisfactory.”

“Okay. Good.” Sokka snorts, rolls his neck out, feels it crack. “Okay. Let me try again.”

“Mhm.”

Again, Sokka bows nearer. He takes it slower this time, eyes cast down to Zuko’s lips. He feels the weight of Zuko’s gaze, feels the tip of his nose graze Zuko’s skin. Zuko meets him that time, leans into another chaste touch of lips.

Sokka sits back, outwardly pleased with himself. “Hey, we’re good at this!”

Zuko scoffs, looks at the window. Sokka sees its reflection as pale squares in his gold eyes. “Thirteen-year-olds would be good at this.”

“Fine, Mr. Negative Nancy. Let’s take it up a notch.” Sokka snaps his fingers, rubs his palms together. “Go on, set the scene for me.”

Zuko eyes him. The breath out his nose is, Sokka decides, a laugh. “Okay… kiss me like you would’ve today, if… if Aang hadn’t been there.” He thinks a moment. “And you’d really missed me.”

Sokka hums, thoughtful, squints into a nonexistent horizon past Zuko’s shoulder. “Interesting,” he says, then claps as he bounces to face Zuko. “I’d say that skips a level, but I’m game.” Zuko starts to roll not only his eyes, but his whole head away, exasperated, but Sokka takes him gently by the jaw before he can get too far. “I’d, um, probably start with something like this, y’know? And…” He swallows, and the lean-in is identical, just this time he lingers with his lips to Zuko’s, breathes in deep through his nose. And he’d pull back completely, then he remembers, _as if I’d missed you,_ and shifts to lick gently at the seam of Zuko’s lips. His thumbs brush the corners of Zuko’s jaw, and when he feels Zuko’s lips part for his tongue, he kisses just his lower.

Sokka’s eyes flicker open. “Something like that,” he murmurs, tempted to laugh at the lowered octave of his voice. Zuko almost blurs in his vision, the pink of his scar, the black of his eyelashes, and Sokka feels something sink in the core of his chest, inside his ribs. Zuko puts an inch of safety between them, but as Sokka’s still cradling his face, he wraps his fingers around Sokka’s forearm.

Sokka coughs into his shoulder, sits up. It puts another few inches there, but now he can see Zuko’s face in all its clarity. “Next scene?”

“No take two?” Zuko smirks faintly.

“Second takes are for rookies.”

“Why do I have to keep _setting the scene?”_

“‘Cos I’m the one kissing _you!_ You’ve gotta do _something!”_

“Fine, then we’ll switch.”

Sokka groans, thuds his temple to the wall. “Goddamn you.” His hands sink to the sides of Zuko’s neck, and his eyes follow. He notes the shadow cast by Zuko’s Adam’s apple. “Okay, um, get _this_ … we’re at a vegan co-op house party.”

Zuko breathes, “What the fuck.”

“Shut up. Okay. You know what a house looks like, I’m guessing. So, like, all the vegans are in the living room, drinking schnapps. But we’re in the kitchen, _alone_ , and—”

“Why do I get the feeling this is either some fantasy of yours, or that you actually lived through this with your ex?”

“Let me _finish_ , dude, fuck. We’re alone in the kitchen, and you’re, you know, _in the mood_ —”

“I’m horny.”

“Yep.”

“You couldn’t just say that?”

“You were the one who wanted me to set the fucking scene.”

Zuko watches him, single eyebrow arched. “This will come in really handy someday, when we’re together in the kitchen at the vegan co-op.”

“You know what, I take it back. All of it.”

Zuko laughs. “You can’t,” he mumbles, slow, and his fingers slip from Sokka’s arms. He presses his sprawling palms to Sokka’s chest, and Sokka watches, feeling like there’s molasses pumping through his veins, as Zuko assesses him. He moves close enough that Sokka can smell him, clean clothes and nondescript cologne, and ducks to kiss the side of Sokka’s neck.

Sokka feels his eyelids flicker. _Oh_.

Unthinking, Sokka turns his head, seeks Zuko out to expedite the moment that Zuko kisses him on the mouth. He does, once, and Sokka’s chest burns under his hands. Zuko’s not finished, though; he rubs his hands up onto Sokka’s shoulders, feels at them, moves them back down, more urgent, firm as he catches Sokka’s mouth with his own, and now Sokka’s responding full-on, feels his face flush when his leg twitches on the bed.

Sokka’s hands are blind but they find Zuko’s back with some manner of fumbling. He holds him, feels at a knob in his spine, and draws Zuko closer, feeling like he’s _won_ when Zuko sinks his fingers into Sokka’s shoulders for balance as he hikes himself astride Sokka’s lap, thank _god_.

Sokka sighs, and he’s dully aware it’s less a breath than a noise, but Zuko’s suckled on his lower lip and tongued his way back into Sokka’s mouth, so he just… _can’t_. Can’t control that right now. “You okay?” Zuko murmurs, and _god_ , his lips are all wet. Sokka chuckles, helpless, and drags his palms down Zuko’s strong thighs. His skin tingles and he’s on the lightheaded side now but… yeah. He’s okay. He nods, and his hands find their way to Zuko’s lower back again, to his trim waist and back down, and then there’s Zuko’s tongue again. In his mouth. Sokka groans, soft.

“Can I,” he whispers, and he’s barely even got his hands on Zuko’s ass before Zuko nods, vigorous, hair falling in his eyes. Sokka takes a handful of his ass in each palm and lifts his chin so he can nose up, catch a glimpse of Zuko’s bodily shudder in his features.

There’s a quick succession of three knocks on his door.

Sokka and Zuko part. Sokka licks his lips, takes a sharp breath, feels himself come back to earth.

“Sokka?” Aang calls. “Sorry, it’s just—this program Katara needs for her ASL class keeps crashing on my laptop.”

Sokka blinks several a time, frowns at the closed door. “Why is Katara using your laptop?”

“She ran out of storage on hers.”

Slowly, Sokka shakes his head. He meets Zuko’s eyes, and it’s comforting, almost, when he sees that veiled hilarity there. “I’m… kind of busy here, Aang.”

A beat of silence. “Oh.” Aang laughs sheepishly. “ _Oh_. Ha, shit, sorry!” He seems to pat the door. “I’ll just ask you later, man.” Then his footsteps recede.

Sokka feels the inevitable smile curve on his mouth, and he lets it, lets his head slump against the wall. His hands are still on Zuko’s ass, so he drapes them over his thighs instead. Taking a breath, he says, “Zuko.”

“Sokka.”

“There’s, like.” He pauses, clicks his tongue, nods faintly. “ _Mad_ stirring in my breeches right now.”

At first, Zuko doesn’t understand. Then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Evading his eyes, Sokka punches at Zuko’s shoulder. “Well… well done, you. Whew. Who knew? Not me.”

Zuko snorts, shifts to sit on the mattress, side by side with Sokka again. “Knew what?”

“That I could get to half-mast making out with you.”

Sokka feels Zuko analyze him, then make a choked laugh. “Was it—are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Sokka breathes laughingly, staring at his socked toes. “Yeah, I’m good. That was kinda hot, though.”

“Yeah.”

Sokka rubs along his jaw, tries to regroup. Zuko went straight for his goddamn neck. He should’ve known at that point.

“I have practice soon.” Zuko hesitates, halfway off the mattress. “Spirit practice,” he clarifies, and Sokka guffaws.

“Not another make-out practice with another fake boyfriend?”

Zuko huffs. “I can barely handle the one.”

Sokka smiles and crosses his legs, watches as Zuko laces himself back into his boots, messes with his hair. “You should walk with Suki and Azula.” He knocks on the wall. “Bet they’re leaving nowabouts, too.”

Zuko acknowledges him with a noncommittal hum, picks up his bag.

“Not gonna kiss me goodbye?” Sokka teases, not expecting at all for Zuko to round the bed and grab him by the collar of his shirt. Sokka blinks his eyes open wide, and Zuko leaves him a moment just to stare before gently laying a kiss on the corner of Sokka’s mouth and muttering, “Bye.” Then he’s out the door.

* * *

It’s nine o’clock on Thursday night when Sokka crawls back to their apartment. He’d forgone meeting Aang and Zuko after class to hole away with his friend Teo in the library basement to bang out the databases partner assignment due the following day. The only things he can think about as he schleps down the hallway are how he can barely see five feet in front of him after staring at his screen for four hours straight—a different ocular test than playing video games for four hours, mind you—and how he’s famished and how he’ll probably have to take a direct U-turn to head _back_ to the library to debug next week’s CS 166 assignment that _he’d_ written and _someone else_ had broken. _How is it only the second week, and yet I’m already drowning?_ Sokka laments woefully. It all disappears in a puff of smoke when he shoulders the door open.

Katara looks up from whatever fucking tome she’s reading at the moment, at _his_ kitchen counter, and turns a cold sort of smile on Sokka.

Sokka whimpers, slams the front door. “Enough with the pseudo break-ins, _please_.” He goes straight for the cabinets, pulls out two packs of ramen. “Yes, I’ll email the landlord, blah blah blah. Please don’t cross me. All I need is some sodium, and then I’ll be on my way again. Where’s Aang?”

Katara closes her book, then stoops to fish a worn pot from the lower cabinets and place it on the stove for Sokka.

“I can do it myself!” he protests, and she snorts, returning to her spot.

“I haven’t seen you all week, and Dad says you’re not answering your messages. I just thought I would check you were alive,” Katara mutters, leans her elbows onto the counter.

“Oh, I’m alive, alright. My calves burn from walking that fucking hill, that’s proof enough.” He freezes, glances at Katara, then shrugs out of his bag, sighing. “Sorry. I’ll respond to Dad tomorrow.” Then he smiles, dramatically forced. “How’s things?” he asks, sprightly.

Katara rolls her eyes. “Good. I’ve barely been home, feels like. I’ve written and researched… _five_ articles in the past four days? Until we recruit new writers, it feels like I have to run the whole mill myself.” She pouts her lower lip. Katara works for the student-run newspaper as a news editor, which to Sokka sounds like hell.

“That’s shitty.” Sokka cranks the burner on. “That’s why you should’ve never let them know you were _capable_ of writing five articles in four days.” He taps his temple knowingly.

“I can’t just—!”

“Purposefully underperform, I know! You have _values_.” He adds jazz hands because he knows they’ll piss her off.

Katara’s lips purse and her eyes narrow. She hops up to sit on the counter.

“Where’s Aang?” mutters Sokka again, poking at noodles floating in lukewarm water.

“I told him to stay in his room.”

Sokka half-laughs, lifts his eyes to her. “What?”

“I just can’t believe I had to hear it from him and Suki and _Azula_ before I heard it from you!”

Again, Sokka laughs. “Heard what?” His smile drops slightly. “Ooh _—ah.”_

“That you’re dating that Zuko guy!”

He snorts. “ _That Zuko guy._ You’ve unknowingly had, like, one degree of separation from him since _forever_. He’s not just _that guy.”_

“Is that so.”

Sokka looks at Katara from the corner of his eye. She looks… supremely _not_ chill. “Yes. Relax.” He waves her worries off with his hand. “It’s casual.”

“Have you slept with him yet?”

Sokka nearly drops the flavor powder everywhere. Sometimes he forgets that his baby sister has twenty years to her name. “Wh—what does that have to do with anything?!”

“So you haven’t,” she decides, scrutinizing him. “Then it’s not casual, Sokka.”

“Wha— _Katara!”_

“Sorry,” she says abruptly, lacing her fingers together in her lap. She peers down at them, hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, obviously. That was… intrusive of me. I just feel like I’m the last to find out.”

Sokka blinks, feeling like a whiplash victim. “That’s—hey, look. You’ve been busy, I’ve been busy, and… to be fair, everyone else found out accidentally, so. It wasn’t like I pulled Aang aside to _divulge_ to him the sordid details of my love life.” _Love life. Zuko._ Sokka has to faintly shake his head. _What am I doing._

As Katara sighs, her shoulders slacken. “You sure?”

Sokka’s eyes flash to her, and he smiles slightly, tips the pot to slosh the noodles into a hefty bowl. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I saw him Tuesday, and he was being all prickly, telling me we could only see each other _twice_ a week or else he’d be derailed by stress, so… A, he can only bear being around me for so long, and B, you haven’t missed much, ‘cos there hasn’t been much to miss.”

Katara smiles back warmly, slides off the counter. “He sounds… incredibly pragmatic,” she states, and as if she knows their kitchen like the back of her hand—she does, she’d helped them organize it—she pulls open a drawer and hands Sokka a pair of chopsticks. “I want to meet him. We could bond over the fact that I _also_ carefully allot my Sokka-exposure to when I can best handle it.”

“Oh, fuck you both.” Sokka drops his head against the cabinets. His smile turns wary. “I’ll… uh. I’ll let him know, though.”

“Good.”

Sokka slurps a mouthful of noodles. “How’s... feminist theory?” he asks. He’s a good brother. Remembers things.

Katara arches an eyebrow, but her enthusiasm is clearly genuine. “The professor is _amazing_. How’s teaching been?”

“Oh, you know.” Sokka shrugs, almost sits his hip against the open flame of the burner he never turned off, but Katara darts over to switch it off before he can. “Teo told me he heard some girls in the student union talking about how it’s _so_ _hard_ to find a seat in my discussion section and it’s so _crowded_ because I’m _that_ hot Head TA and who _doesn’t_ want to learn about systems programming from _me_?”

Katara’s distaste is evident in the crinkle of her nose. “Maybe Teo heard wrong.”

Aang’s door cracks open. “Can I come out now?”

Katara looks over her shoulder, huffs a laugh. “Yes, Aang.”

“Thanks.” He strides into the kitchen. “I was eavesdropping, by the way. Could be, Sokka, that they were talking about me. My discussion was super full on Monday!”

Sokka resists the urge to get combative, noodles dripping from his mouth. “You’re not the Head TA! And in what world does _Aang_ sound like _Sokka?!”_

Katara lays a hand on Aang’s shoulder, looks up at him with big blue eyes full of mock-concern. “Just let him have this,” she whispers, like she intends Sokka to hear. “He needs it.”

“Why are you both so resistant to the idea that there are people out there who find me attractive?!”

Aang and Katara exchange a look. Aang slowly takes a grip on the counter, his eyes fixed gravely on its worn surface. “Katara, did you open a window? I feel like I just… felt a breeze. Is it the wind?”

“I felt it, too. Don’t worry. Just a bunch of hot air.” Katara’s eyes wander right through Sokka.

“You know, I actually love it when you guys gang up on me.” Sokka splashes broth on his shirt, ignores it intently, and dumps his bowl in the sink. “I’m going back to the library.”

Aang gasps, glances at the clock on the stove. “But it’s fucking nine-thirty!”

“HA!” Sokka points a finger at him. “Wind I am not!”

Aang looks startled, then he slaps the counter in defeat. “Dammit.”

_Thursday 11:55pm_

**zuko**

u up?

**Sokka**

Lol

Wow

The first time you’ve ever texted me of your own volition

And it sounds like you’re soliciting dick pics

Fake nudes, huh?

Aang has cucumbers in the fridge

I’ll have you know I can be surprisingly imaginative

**zuko**

no

spirit ran late so i missed the last bus

**Sokka**

You wanna crash at mine?

**zuko**

yes thanks

walking to urs with suki and my sister

**Sokka**

Whereabouts? I’m not home I’m at the main library

**zuko**

just about to pass it

**Sokka**

WAIT

Wait for me my luv!!!!

I’ll be outside in a min

Packing

Running

Don’t go

As Sokka hurries down the library steps, under the nearest streetlamp he spots Zuko—the lithe shape of him unmistakable, even though he seems to blend into the dark—Suki, Azula, and a fourth stranger, whose long braid hits at mid-back and sways as they hop from side to side.

Sokka hears _“Is that him, Zuko?”_ and then the fourth figure darts toward him, almost menacing in its agility as it dips into the dark abysses between streetlights. His heart is in his fucking throat, and then he’s being tackled—probably would’ve hit the ground if his assailant weighed more than a hundred pounds—but alas, he looks down at an armful of pink and… _short_. The stranger clings to his shoulders.

“Wow,” she breathes, eyes flickering all over his face. “Hi! Just—wow! I mean, Zuko _said_ you were hot, but I don’t even know what I was expecting! Sokka, right? Am I saying that right?”

“Ty Lee,” mutters Zuko, now closer, perhaps by way of introduction, more probably as an admonition.

“That’s me,” says Ty Lee to Sokka, almost conspiratorially, then hugs him around the shoulders again, squeezing tight. “Oh my god, Zuko! He smells so good! Like… like _instant ramen.”_ She draws back, grinning at Sokka from an arm’s length away.

Sokka finally coughs out something resembling a laugh. Just behind Ty Lee, Suki’s smirking, and Azula looks like she couldn’t care less. “Nice… nice to meet you,” says Sokka, then nods at his familiars. “Sukibuki, Azula, how’s it hangin’?”

“Can we please go,” mutters Azula. “It’s cold.”

“You’re holding your sweater,” Suki says to her with a chuckle. “Hi, Sokka.”

“Sleepover time!” Ty Lee sings, skippingly takes both Suki and Azula by the hands.

Sokka blinks, overwhelmed, then feels Zuko drift to his side and take his hand.

“Sorry,” Zuko mutters, staring after the three girls, “that was kind of inevitable.”

“Nah, man, your friends are awesome.” Sokka finds a strange sort of solace in looking at Zuko’s face after another nearly three-hour stint in the library basement. Zuko makes to take a step, but Sokka pulls his arm rigid, answers Zuko’s questioning look with a kiss to his unexpecting lips. “Are they watching?” Sokka whispers, halfway on his tiptoes, hovering close to Zuko. And he watches as Zuko’s eyes flit away, then to the ground, all without drifting bodily away from Sokka.

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes.

“Good. This one’s for calling me hot.” With his free hand, he cups the back of Zuko’s neck, kisses him once, twice, firmest the third time, feeling his own fingers twitch with life between Zuko’s when Zuko hums, grabs Sokka by the bicep and squeezes.

“This is so cute!” Ty Lee squeaks distantly, and Sokka feels himself break into a grin.

Zuko huffs out his nose. His eyelashes are a flash of black as he blinks. “That was so extra.”

“Extra _points_ ,” Sokka insists. “A-plus! Also, you kinda smell really good.”

That time Zuko just frowns, releases Sokka’s arm as he steps to a socially-acceptable distance. “I just spent, like, three hours dancing. I’m drenched in sweat.”

Sokka can only shrug in _maybe so_ , deciding he’d rather not elaborate. “Come on, lover boy,” he urges, and Zuko lurches forth as Sokka pulls on his arm. Sokka meets Suki’s eyes, watches as she smugly mouths _oh-kay_ , then turns on her heel to keep walking, hair swishing at her jaw.

At the stoplight, Ty Lee tears away from Azula and Suki to take Sokka by his unoccupied arm. Her jacket is a pink faux fur, soft where it brushes his bare forearm.

“ _So_ , Sokka,” she says, and hugs his bicep.

“What can I do you for?” Sokka answers, and naturally, ignores it when Zuko scoffs.

“There’s a lot of things I want to talk to you about, but _this_ is the most important thing,” she says, staring into his eyes earnestly.

Sokka nods, hesitant. “Okay, yeah. Shoot.”

Ty Lee licks her lips, takes a quick breath. _“Areyoucomingtothewintershowcase!”_

Sokka coughs, blinks and shakes his head simultaneously. “What?”

“The winter showcase!” Ty Lee says, desperate. “It’s one night where some of the campus dance groups perform what they’ve been practicing all semester! And this winter we get to do it on the big fancy stage at Sato Auditorium! So you _have_ to be there!”

Sokka smiles faintly, turns his head to look at Zuko, who neither says nor does anything. “Yeah, of course I’ll come. I’ll come if I’m still around,” he says, ambiguously enough that Zuko won’t have his neck later for making potentially-false promises to this girl.

“Yes!” she squeals, then tucks herself closer to his side. “You _have_ to. Usually, we just perform the group dances that we practice for the competitions in the spring. But this semester, Zuko came up with the choreo for this really, _really_ sexy duet that him and I are gonna perform, too! On top of everything else! If we can get it down in time. It’s pretty hard. But he choreographed it, so I know he can do it! And I’m pretty good, too. I’ve done gymnastics since I could _crawl_ , Sokka, so if Zuko says to do a backflip, I’ll do the frickin’ backflip. But I just wanna warn you, _don’t_ be fooled because Zuko and I have great chemistry on stage.” Ty Lee laughs. “Yeah, I know, right? Crazy! I don’t know where he pulls it from! He keeps it locked away somewhere deep and super, super safe! It’s like... before the music comes on, he looks at me like he’d look at… I don’t know, maybe a pet rock. It’s his pet, so he cares about it, but it’s also just… _a rock,_ if you catch my drift. But _then_ , switch the music on, and— _Sokka_ , holy shiitake mushrooms! You just need to see it. He’s _so_ talented.” She shakes her head, looks dreamily out at the street. “Latin pop really brings out Zuko’s inner fire. It’s a thing to behold.”

At Sokka’s other side, Zuko sighs. “You’re not a rock, Ty Lee.”

Sokka shuts the apartment door behind Zuko. “I like her,” he declares, traipsing past Zuko and to his bedroom. “Also, why is everyone in Spirit hot? I’m starting to question the ethics behind your audition process.”

Zuko is silent, but Sokka hears him follow.

In the bedroom, Zuko sets his bag down by the door, scrubs at his eyes like a sleepy baby. Sokka sits on the edge of his bed, watches him… just because.

“Do you mind if I, like,” Zuko murmurs, dragging a hand over his mouth and across to the back of his neck, “use your shower. I don’t want to—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sokka says as he bounds off his bed. From his sad excuse for a closet—it’s missing a hanging bar, so more than half the real estate inside goes unused—he plucks out a clean towel, which he tosses to Zuko. “I’ll come show you how to use the faucet, though, it’s kind of finicky, unless you’re in the mood for an ice bath.”

The bathroom light flickers dubiously when Sokka flips the switch, as if it’s taking its sweet time to decide whether or not to be functional. “Okay,” Sokka sounds out slowly once it seems to steady itself, “you just have to twist the handle almost all the way to the other side, like this, but not _all_ the way, or else it’ll come out piping hot.” He steps back from the shower, comes eye to eye with Zuko, who’d been watching over his shoulder, having now divested himself of his shirt.

Zuko mutters, “I could’ve figured that out myself.”

“I’m just being hospitable,” Sokka rasps, then clears his throat. He realizes it’s been a while since he’s looked Zuko in the eye, so he tries to, and pokes a finger square into the middle of his chest. “You’re… ripped, dude.”

Zuko squints at him. “Thanks for noticing. Did you want to stand there while I use your shower?”

Sokka puts his hands on his hips, contemplates at length. Then, “Nah, I’ll leave you to it. Just let me brush my teeth.”

So Sokka does. There’s a strange sort of silence that hangs in the steaming air as Zuko strips and steps into the shower, but Sokka thinks it would just be more awkward to yell over the noise of the shower head and try to hold a conversation.

Back in his room, he strips down to his boxers, because he always does, and… why should it be any different if Zuko’s here? He can’t think of an answer, so he settles propped up against the headboard, squinting at his laptop in the low light. He already has fifteen worry-stricken emails from confused students, and he’d rather not prolong their pain until the following morning… or the afternoon, which is when he tends to wake up. He’s no sadist.

Zuko comes back in with the towel slung low on his hips. Without moving, Sokka peers at him around his laptop screen. He’s lean, like Sokka would expect a dancer to be. Sokka has the sudden craving to see Zuko in action. A quick Google search of Spirit’s past performances would be easy, if Zuko wasn’t about to climb in bed beside him.

“You wanna, like,” Sokka starts, coughs to clear his throat when his voice comes out low and throaty, “borrow some clothes? It’s—”

“No,” says Zuko, who shakes out his hair and squats by his bag. “I carry a spare change of clothes.” But all he does when he drops his towel is put on a pair of small black briefs, hang up Sokka’s towel on the back of his door, and sit on the edge of Sokka’s bed, phone in hand.

Sokka is distracted momentarily when his computer chimes, and he squints at the little window that’s popped up with a new chat message in his email. _Hi Sokka I really need your help on OS homework 1 I know it’s due tomorrow but like can you just send me the answers or something? Thanks_. He’s dumbfounded until he sees the message is from Toph, and his eyes narrow. _Ha very funny, CivE. Punch yourself for me? Kisses and good night xxx,_ he types, then shuts his laptop.

“You know, most people with boyfriends would jump at the opportunity to wear their boyfriends’ clothes,” Sokka says knowledgeably. “You know, the whole _boyfriend jeans_ phenomenon.”

Zuko doesn’t even look at him, eyes glued to his phone. Sokka stares with a vague sense of misery at his toned back. “We’re not boyfriends,” Zuko murmurs, typing furiously.

“Correct,” Sokka concedes, admittedly defeated. “Point… point made.”

Zuko freezes. He stares at the wall opposite, sighs, then looks over his shoulder at Sokka. “And… you wear too much blue.”

“It brings out my eyes, asshole.” Sokka sits up, tucks his laptop safely under the bed where he won’t smash it when he tumbles out of his sheets the next morning. “It’s okay, you can go back to your texting Olympics.”

“It’s Ty Lee,” Zuko mutters, shutting his phone off and rolling onto his back on top of the covers. Sokka had invested in a queen size bed this year. He wonders if _this_ would still work had he a twin. “She’s raving about you.”

Sokka’s reaching to turn off his table-lamp-on-the-floor, but whirls to look at Zuko before his fingers touch the switch. “Only glowing reviews, I presume?” He grins, and Zuko snorts.

“Yeah.” Zuko links his fingers over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling. Sokka looks at him, then turns off the light, bathing them both in darkness. “My friend Mai… Ty Lee is Mai’s girlfriend, if you remember. They’ve been together for ages. Anyway, Mai also doesn’t really believe, um, this.” Sokka lays down and shifts under the blanket, has to assume Zuko is gesturing between himself and Sokka, at the nebulous constant presence of the lie that is _them_. “Not because she just never believes in me, like Azula, but… I don’t know. She can just read me. But Ty Lee’s, you know, all up in _Team Sokka_ since she watched you kiss me, so. She’s trying to convince Mai otherwise.”

Sokka smirks into the dark, folds his arms behind his head. “Team Sokka. I _like_ the sound of that.”

Zuko says nothing, but there’s a rustle of sheets to Sokka’s left, a slight tug on the covers.

“My sister wants to meet you,” Sokka says. “Not, like, formally, but just…”

“I know.” Zuko yawns, and Sokka feels himself smile just at the sound. “She found me on Instagram. Messaged me an hour ago.”

Sokka blinks, turns toward the vague shape of Zuko in the dark. Then he sighs, relaxing, shaking his head. “You know what, I’m not surprised.” He feels a pang of insecurity, doesn’t even think _he_ follows Zuko on _Instagram_ , of all things. Tomorrow.

“I told her we could have free boba at my uncle’s shop. Saturday, I think.”

“The woman moves fast.”

Zuko makes that huff-laugh that’s so contradictory it always confuses the shit out of Sokka. He mumbles, “Can you come? Please?” Sokka feels him shift against the mattress. “I looked through her pictures. She’s… kind of intimidating.”

Sokka hoots a laugh. “What?”

“Dude, she interned at the UN. She’s, like, _smart_. She’s a Fulbright scholar! She hasn’t even graduated!”

“Did you stalk her on LinkedIn, too?” Sokka wrinkles his nose. “Okay, fine, she’s _accomplished._ But she’s not out to get _you_. She just wants to rope you in with her charms and make sure you’re on her team in case she ever needs someone around to gang up on _me_.”

Zuko is silent. Then he exhales. “Can you still come?”

Abruptly, Sokka’s face splits with a grin. He rolls over, squirms into Zuko’s space, throws an arm across his body to reel him in. “Aw, baby,” he coos, squeezing, “of _course_ I’ll be there, my terrible little liar.”

“Sokka,” Zuko grunts, his face smashed against Sokka’s neck. But he surrenders—Sokka feels it in his sigh. “I’ll… Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sokka lays his cheek to Zuko’s hair. He again decides he likes the smell of Zuko now, too, when he smells like he belongs at Sokka and Aang’s.

Three minutes pass. Zuko’s still hugging himself. “I can’t sleep like this,” he says into the pitch-black. Sokka has to peel an eye open, because he’s pretty damn comfortable and his body feels so, so heavy.

“Mhm.”

Zuko extricates himself from Sokka’s arm, puts his weight into pushing Sokka back to his respective side of the mattress.

“What if _I_ can’t sleep like _this_?” Sokka mumbles, forlorn at the loss of contact.

“Somehow, I think you’ll manage.”

“Maybe. But I won’t like it.”

“Cry me a river.” Zuko tugs on the sheets somewhere in his vicinity, and the bedsprings groan.

“Y’know, I thought I was too tired to say _fuck you_ , but, like. Fuck you.”

Again, the bedsprings yowl. Then Sokka feels Zuko’s warm breath fan over his face, and he opens his eyes. When he lifts his tired hand, his fingers come into contact with Zuko’s arm. He grazes his fingers up the hair on Zuko’s forearm, presses his thumb into his pulse in his elbow. “You trying to kiss me fake good night or something?” he murmurs, and he hates that it’s becoming a familiar sensation, that feeling that his heart’s a pull-string toy and Zuko happens to tug on it when Sokka least expects and he has no idea what idiotic catchphrase his voice box will blurt next.

“I thought about it.” Sokka feels fingers in his hair, a tingling release when Zuko pulls the hair tie from it. “You forgot this in,” Zuko says, and he finds Sokka’s hand, rolls it onto his wrist.

“I was distracted,” Sokka says truthfully.

Zuko chuckles, then his warmth withdraws. There’s a pull on the blanket again as Zuko settles somewhere far, far away on the bed. Sokka could whimper.

“What were your thoughts?” he implores, but he sounds sleepy even to his own ears.

“Night, Sokka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)


	5. 05 - as if it's your last

As he peels sleep-crusted eyes open on Friday morning—or what most might consider the afternoon—Sokka thinks he’ll never, ever find out how exactly he ends up sprawled across his bed, mattress still sunken in parts where Zuko had been. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though; he didn’t set an alarm, and he has classes to go to, project partners to meet, office hours to hold. He rolls upright in bed, unplugs his phone, and squints at the screen—at one particular email notification that sticks out from the rest.

Katara’s sent him a calendar invite for the following afternoon. 12pm, The Jasmine Dragon. The event is innocuously titled ‘Let’s get boba :),’ but Sokka sees Zuko’s name on the list of invitees, sighs his whole soul out of his lungs.

 _No_. No time to think about that now. But he _will_ be there, _will_ fake-support his fake boyfriend. It is, after all, mostly his fault that Zuko is now entangled with Katara, even if the worst she’ll do is try to recruit him to phonebank for a voter outreach campaign or show him that picture of baby Sokka she keeps in a special folder on her phone for those times she’s feeling ill-natured.

Sokka shudders at the thought.

He thinks of texting Zuko some nonsense about their _calendared event_ , then realizes he doesn’t even have enough time to shower because he needs to head to lecture, like, _now_. He already feels sorry for Teo.

It’s just after nine that night when Sokka drags himself through their broken door, weary down to the bone. He’d stayed an extra two hours past his office hours— _what_ had he been thinking, choosing the Friday afternoon slot?—to aid the poor folks fretting about the nine pm deadline in the minutes leading up to it. The apartment seems empty at first, but Aang’s door is cracked open, and Sokka finds him on his bed, spellbound by one of those Disney nature documentaries. So Sokka joins him, might pass out within ten minutes, _but_ by the time his phone alarm chimes in his pocket bright and early at eleven the next morning, still in Aang’s bed, Aang is already gone and Sokka is ready to carpe the fucking diem— _showered_ , this time.

He decides he’ll even play the part of the good brother— _when does he not_ —and walk down to The Jasmine Dragon with Katara. On his way out, a spring in his step, he stops next door, tests the stable, unbudging doorknob with some resentment and then raps his knuckles lightly on the door.

“Coming!” Sokka hears faintly, along with a pitter-patter of feet before the door swings open and Suki grins out at him, donning an apron depicting an… overly-tanned, incredibly chiseled dude’s body. There might be egg whites in her hair. “Sokka! You’re just in time for pancakes!”

Sokka’s eyebrow rises and his stomach grumbles. _Shut it, you_. “That’s nice, Suki, but I’m here for my sister,” he says, and peers past her into the apartment. Yue is at the kitchen table, pajama-clad and drizzling syrup over her stack of pancakes, and on the couch, Toph and Azula, feet kicked up on the table, are enjoying their own, too. Their obvious air of camaraderie makes Sokka’s eye twitch.

“Hi, Sokka!” Yue waves, then lifts her plate to show him. “They’re really fluffy! Look at the _jiggle_!”

Suki smiles, sets her hand on her hip. “Um, Katara’s not here,” she says. “She left… maybe an hour ago? Right?” She looks over her shoulder at Yue, who nods quickly in confirmation. “Yep.”

“An _hour_ ago?” Sokka echoes, fingers cramping on the doorframe.

“She said something about meeting my brother,” Azula drawls as she crosses her legs and licks her fork clean, “which should be such fun. He’s just a ball of sunshine with new people.”

Sokka realizes he’s been but a pawn to Katara’s plan. “I have to go,” he mutters, eyes darting to his feet, then to Suki’s face.

“If you leave now, you’ll never find pancakes as jiggly as these again,” Toph warns him, but Sokka’s already down the hall.

He’s sweating by the time he reaches The Jasmine Dragon. It’s only a ten-minute walk, but he makes it a five-minute clumsy jog. Katara and Zuko are visible at the table nearest the window, the pane decorated in green decals of dragons and vines. Sokka takes a breath and lunges at the doors, but tugging proves to be a futile task when they don’t budge. Whether Katara likes it or not, his presence is impossible to ignore, and he’s forced to stand and watch her climb leisurely off her stool and stroll to the doors, which unlock easily from the inside.

“Sokka, it’s a _push_ door,” Katara says, batting her eyes at him and popping the straw of her nearly-empty drink into her mouth. “And they don’t open for another ten minutes, see?” She points to the numerals on the door. _Saturday: 12pm-9pm_. Sokka’s phone reads 11:50.

He gives her a withering glare, then bulldozes his way inside and straight to Zuko. “What did she do to you?” he spits, takes Zuko by the shoulders and swivels him ninety degrees on his chair. He pinches Zuko by the chin, squintingly inspects his face.

“Nothing, I’m—I’m _fine_ ,” Zuko growls, tearing Sokka’s hand from his face. “Stop poking at me!”

But Sokka says nothing. His eyes are caught up on the blue, disturbingly recognizable sweatshirt Zuko is wearing. “Hey,” he says, softer now, “that’s my…”

Zuko swivels away from him.

“I thought it looked familiar,” Katara says, sliding into the seat opposite Zuko. “Familiarly… ratty.”

“It’s vintage!” Sokka protests, pressing a hand onto Zuko’s shoulder. It’s one of his favorites, in actuality. He’d bought it at a vintage shop near Pike Place Market, old Seattle Seahawks merchandise. His lips quirk as he looks Zuko over. “Blue looks nice on you,” he states, and Zuko covers his eyes with his hand. Sokka smiles winningly, then wobbles the table as he wedges himself behind it and onto Zuko’s lap. “She been giving you a hard time?” He looks critically across the table. “Thanks for tricking me, by the way.”

“Actually, Sokka, we were having an enriching conversation until you came and tried to pull on the push doors,” Katara says and laces her fingers under her chin.

“They were locked anyway.” Sokka frowns with distaste, then suspicion. “ _Enriching_?”

Katara’s eyes go blank. “ _No_ , Sokka, I didn’t show him the baby picture.”

An arm circles Sokka’s waist. He looks down at it, curious, just as Zuko leans over his shoulder and says evenly, “Katara, I’m very interested in this baby picture,” sounding far too intrigued for Sokka’s liking.

Katara laughs, takes the final sip from her cup and taps it against the table with a shake of her head. “Sorry, Zuko. As much as you tempt me, I think you need to pass… let’s say the _one month_ milestone with Sokka. Then you can come find me.” She hops off her stool, hikes her backpack over her shoulder. “Thanks for the boba! I have to go interview some dude uptown for an article or else the managing editor will… probably kill me.” She sighs, gives them a strained smile, and strides off. Sokka swears there’s a gust of wind that breezes over him in her wake.

Sokka stares at her empty cup. He turns his head, frowns at Zuko. “When did you get here?”

Zuko shrugs. “She texted me eleven, so.”

“Of course she did.” Sokka rubs at his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Zuko huffs. “It’s okay. She… she kind of gave me a dressing-down at first, warned me that I might be a rebound from Suki, and, like, that she wouldn’t hesitate to gut me if I hurt you. That sort of thing.” He meets Sokka’s eyes, and Sokka sees a hint of a smile etched into the corners of his mouth. “That was, um… I got nervous, even though, like, I can’t be a rebound, because this is... well, you know. But then she was really nice. She probably knows more about my family now than you do.”

Sokka chuckles, releases a pent-up breath. “Oh, god,” he whispers. He loves his sister, he really does. He looks again at Zuko, squirming sideways in his lap—it can’t be comfortable for Zuko, Sokka’s sit bones digging into his thighs, Sokka teetering on the tips of his toes because the stool’s too tall—and hooks his finger over Zuko’s collar. “You,” he murmurs, smug and measured, “stole my sweatshirt.” His smile spreads wide. “Right out of my fucking closet!”

Zuko’s eyes roll to the window, but Sokka can tell he’s being evasive. “You said it’s what people with boyfriends do.”

“A wise man once said that, yes.” Sokka tries to rein in his countenance. He thinks it’s fact by now that his animated emoting can sometimes be too much for Zuko. “Hey, I have a question. Remember when you said you wanted us to see each other only twice a week, once between Monday and Thursday, and once between Friday and Sunday, but _now_ —”

“I said we could make exceptions!”

“I can delay opening another hour if you two would like some privacy.”

Sokka and Zuko nearly butt heads as they reel toward the source of the voice. Through a door in the back wall had emerged an older man, squat with a pointed beard and a pale yellow Jasmine Dragon-emblazoned apron.

“Uncle,” Zuko chokes out, and Sokka has to stumble onto his two feet as Zuko shoves him out of his lap and… into the table. It hurts.

“Fuck,” whimpers Sokka, but he stands up as straight as he can as Zuko’s uncle approaches with a benign smile.

“You must be Sokka,” he says warmly. “I met your lovely sister not too long ago. She said the kindest things about my tea!”

“That’s my sister,” Sokka says, half-smiling and flapping a hand at the air. The other clutches at his stomach. “Always—always trying to curry favor with the boba folks, ha. Or—or then your boba is just—that great! I’m sure it’s great!”

Zuko steps up beside him. “You can open, Uncle. We were just leaving.”

Zuko’s uncle throws his hands into the air. “Why the rush, Zuko? You won’t let your old uncle properly meet your significant other?”

“ _My sig_ —no! We’re leaving.” Zuko takes Sokka by the elbow, drags him toward the doors.

“But,” Sokka croaks, “baby, wait, I didn’t get my free boba!”

“Come back whenever you’d like, Sokka!” the uncle calls after him, then shakes his head, retiring to the counter.

Outside, Sokka stands beside Zuko, who seems to take a moment to breathe all the redness from his face.

“Sorry,” Zuko mumbles and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “I’m really bad at lying to Uncle.”

Sokka smiles, nudges his shoulder to Zuko’s. “Hey, it’s okay, I’ll—”

“You called me _baby_ ,” Zuko says then. He exhales out his nose, and even his eyes frown at Sokka. “Don’t.”

Sokka pouts. “It’s all part of the act! I used to call Suki a _bunch_ of petnames! Sooks, Susu, Kiki, Keeks, Sukibuki, _mon petit chou-chou_ , Chou-ki, Chou-chou-ki, beloved, _lover_ —”

“Okay, I get it!” Zuko hastily slices at the air with his hand. “But we’re not you and Suki! I mean—the hypothetical _we_ are not you and Suki. _Hypothetically_ , I wouldn’t call you anything but Sokka. So… you can’t expect me to call you anything.”

Sokka scans Zuko’s visage, then lifts his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t asking you to,” he mutters, grabs hold of opposite elbows behind his head. It’s noon, he knows as much when he hears Zuko’s uncle unlock the doors to The Jasmine Dragon, and Zuko looks to be in a far worse mood now than Katara had left him. _Good job, Sokka_. He’ll shelve _baby_ , then. “So…” He shuffles until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder again. “Are you doing anything right now? Do you wanna hang out?”

“Listen,” Zuko murmurs, staring straight ahead at the concrete baking in the early fall sun. “Um… these are gonna be a busy next few weeks. We’re holding auditions for the Spirit competition team, and I’m gonna start teaching classes to the beginners, so… we probably won’t be seeing too much of each other.”

Sokka blinks. “Oh.” He thinks, humorously, that he’s not exactly at a loss for shit to do—really, the longer he thinks, the longer of a to-do list he recalls—but that maybe, just maybe, he wants to _spend time_ with Zuko, as _friends_ , preferably when he himself isn’t snoring. It’s too tall an order, though. “Right. Righty-o! Okay.”

Zuko leans into the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll give this back to you once I’ve washed it.” He pinches at the hem of Sokka’s worn sweatshirt.

Sokka laughs, weak. “That? Nah, keep it. Until we fake-break-up, I mean. I kind of like that one, so, like, I’ll want it back before I never see you again, but… it’s not urgent. You know?”

Zuko nods.

So does Sokka, though he’s also rocking between his heels and the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. “Okay, well, see you… whenever?”

“Whenever,” echoes Zuko, barely audible.

Sokka smiles tightly, heads home the way he’d run.

* * *

“Shall tonight see the reemergence of…” Aang holds for dramatic pause, then waves his arms wildly, some strange amalgam of jazz hands and fairy-dust sprinkling, “ _Frat star Sokka_?!”

Sokka groans piteously, but it doesn’t seem like anyone in the room feels all that much pity for him. “Okay, just because I’m the only one of us who _can_ and _has done_ a keg stand, it doesn’t mean I’m a _frat star_!”

“Hey,” says Aang, rubbing at the half-inch of black fuzz on his head and collapsing on the couch next to Sokka, “believe me, I’d do a kombucha keg stand if I could. Beer, though…” Aang shudders.

Toph cracks their knuckles, thwacks Sokka on the ankle with their cane before settling on his other side. “You lived in a frat, you were one with the frat stars. Once a frat star, always a frat star.”

Sokka blinks skeptically. “Aang was there, too, you know.”

“Aang taught them how to compost,” states Toph.

Aang leans over, arm across Sokka’s shoulders. “Does that invalidate my frat star lifetime membership?”

Toph shrugs. “I don’t know. I hear all frat boys dress like shit, and for the life of me, I can’t imagine you having some innate sense of style. Or Sokka, for that matter, but that’s been established.”

“It’s always Bully Sokka Day when you’re around,” Sokka says mock-brightly, tapping his fist to Toph’s shoulder.

“Anyway, I could do a longer keg stand than you and keep it all down,” Toph says. “I just don’t want anyone holding me upside down with their hands near my feet. No thank you.”

“I believe that,” says Aang, chuckling, and then his laugh grows louder. “Remember—remember the _Jakes_? Oh, that was epic.”

“This is a story I’ve never heard,” says Azula, taking a seat in Aang’s newly-and-dubiously acquired beanbag. Sokka presses his lips together tightly, holds his breath to keep from blurting _well, why would you?_ because apparently _they hang out with her now_. Should Sokka choose to accept logic—Azula and Suki are friends, and both now with Toph and Katara by extension—it would make all the sense in the world. But it’s Friday evening, a student was callously rude to him at office hours not too much earlier (out of stress, he knows, he _understands_ ) and now he’s realizing he’s seen more of Azula than his purported boyfriend in the last two weeks. Two weeks it has been, indeed, since Zuko kicked him to the curb outside The Jasmine Dragon. And Azula’s eyeliner is aggressively perfect and her red eyeshadow is frightening but cool, so… today, logic comes second to spite.

“You needed to have been there, Azula,” Aang laughs, but he barrels into the story anyway. “Last year, we were at this party—it wasn’t a frat party, but there were a bunch of guys there that Sokka and I knew from Chi Phi—and so we ended up playing this drinking game with them, um… flip cup?” Sokka nods in confirmation. “Yeah, flip cup, so it was me, Sokka, Toph, and Katara against these four Chi Phi dudes. And… well, Katara’s a lightweight—”

From the kitchen: “Hey!”

Aang smiles sheepishly. “It’s true. And me and Sokka were, like…” He chuckles, brows lifted. “We were fucking wasted.”

“All we’d eaten that day was vegan congee and cookies Aang made out of _chickpeas_ ,” Sokka points out. “These were the days of the co-op. Not exactly the heartiest feast.”

“Right.” Aang nods. “So, like—”

“Crucial detail,” Toph interjects. “There were four Chi Phi dudes, and at least two of them were named Jake. The third might’ve been James, but could’ve also been Jake, and the fourth was something idiotic like _Digby_ , but they were all white and that was reason enough to round it up and call ‘em all Jake.”

“Crucial,” Aang agrees. Sokka smiles to himself. Aang continues, “So, like, obviously there’s three weak links on our team. Everyone except Toph. And the Jakes were crushing us, so every round we lost, they kicked someone off our team until it was just four Jakes against Toph. And then—in the last round, what could’ve been the _biggest_ loss of our lives—Toph fucking drinks and flips all four cups before the third Jake could even finish.” He shakes his head, eyes filled with awe as he beams at Azula. “It was… inspiring.”

Azula chuckles and crosses her legs. “Sounds life-changing,” she says dryly.

Aang is utterly serious when he says, “It was!”

Sokka goes to squeeze Toph into his side. “Honorary frat star,” he simpers, but Toph thumps him in the chest.

“As much as I _sincerely_ appreciate that title, please get your sweaty armpit off me.”

Sokka blinks, wide-eyed. “Take it easy on me, it’s stress sweat!”

Toph shrugs, turns their head in Azula’s direction. “It was one of my finer moments. Serves them right, anyway, for underestimating the short one.” They crack their knuckles, and Sokka shudders at the echoing pops. “It’s all in the dexterity. If I’d dropped just _one_ cup off that nasty, wet table and had to go _find it_ , it would’ve all been over.”

They’re walking… somewhere. Sokka assumes it’s not to an accredited establishment that serves alcohol, considering half their group is underage. It makes him feel old, and it also makes him wish Zuko were there, if only to pretend he likes holding Sokka’s hand.

Suki’s walking at his side in companionable silence. He clears his throat. “Where’s Yue tonight?”

“Oh.” Suki chuckles. “She had to go stargazing for a class.”

“On a _Friday_?”

Suki nods, then shrugs. “She _really_ wanted to take that class, so. Sacrifices had to be made.”

Aang suddenly grabs hold of Sokka’s arm, crowds close to him. “Dude, is the Asian glow kicking in?” He points to his own face, pokes at it. “Feels a little warm.”

Sokka stares at him, bewildered. “It’s dark, I don’t fucking know. Ask me later.” He shoves Aang by the shoulder, who pinwheels willingly back toward Katara. Exchanging a look with Suki, Sokka sputters out a laugh. “Um,” he starts again, coughs to clear his throat. “How’s Spirit been lately? Busy? I heard, uh… auditions, and… yeah.”

Suki rubs warmth into her bare upper arms. He wishes he had a jacket to give her, but even in the temperate Bay Area, it’s way too hot for Sokka almost year-round. He rarely wears an excessive layer. Suki eyes him, and there’s a knowing quality to her smile that Sokka decidedly ignores. “Yeah, did you want to audition?” She prods him in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, there’s a beginners’ group! I have a feeling you’d like playing teacher’s pet.”

Sokka chokes just on air. Zuko _had_ mentioned teaching beginner classes. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but can’t quite suppress his smile.

“I’m joking,” Suki murmurs amicably, rubbing the middle of Sokka’s back. “It’s mostly Zuko and Ty Lee in charge of the audition process. I just host the welcome meeting for the new recruits! That’s next week. But, yeah. This time of the semester, Zuko’s usually popping a vein trying to do everything himself, and he refuses to delegate the work to anyone else, so…” She shrugs again. “If you’re asking ‘cos he’s been distant, that’s why. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worrying.” Sokka blinks a few times. He hadn’t expected Zuko to be _lying_ , but a text now and then might’ve been nice, even if the two of them are tethered by mere falsehoods. Not everyone always responded to Sokka’s texts, though, and if Zuko doesn’t want to, there’s probably some valid reason.

Like that bit about the falsehoods.

“Okay, maybe I was,” Sokka concedes, “but anyway, that settled, let’s move on: Ty Lee! She seems fun. High-energy. We should invite her out with us sometime.”

“You want me to text her now?” Suki asks, and she pulls Sokka to a stop when the crosswalk light turns red.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not a guarantee she’ll come.” Suki shrugs. “But if I tell her to meet us at Haru’s, she just might. All he plays is K-pop. I hear it’s a strong enough lure for the common wild Ty Lee.” Her thumbs zoom over her phone screen.

Sokka arches an eyebrow. “Haru?”

Suki waves at him vaguely. “Dance community, Sokka. You probably don’t know him. Hey, everybody! Next right up there!” she calls out, waving at the upcoming corner of the block.

Sokka dodges a girl passing by with a massive burrito in hand. With a sigh, he accepts his fate for the night.

Sokka can’t be sure how long it’s been. Long enough for Yue to show up, long enough for Sokka to slump, unnoticed, into a corner of this Haru dude’s couch, unintentionally with a perfect view of the big living room where all the furniture’s been pushed to the sides and his companions and their _dance community friends_ are head-to-head in a freestyle _dance battle_. Suki and Azula are partaking, at least, and a group of strangers, one of them with a sketchy mustache who Sokka’s decided to pin as Haru. Either way, the few drinks he’s had that night and the accumulated lack of sleep and hours of blue light from poking through his students’ code all week are catching up to him. His eyes are slipping shut, or the lights are going down, at least until the next song comes blasting through the speakers, all brassy, militaristic sonic-boom, and cruelly reminds Sokka that he’s neither in his own bed nor Aang’s, and it won’t make his friends’ lives any easier if he passes out at Haru’s house who knows how far from his place.

He sits up, blinks his eyes open just in time to watch Suki do a fucking back handspring, which draws a chorus of whoops and cheers from the borders of the room. Sokka pumps his fist in unity, but can’t manage much more than that. It’s the mustache-guy’s turn next, and if he’s trying to look like he’s genuinely a mechanized robot, he does pretty well in Sokka’s book of amateurish dance evaluation.

Going by applause, though, Suki wins out. She lifts her arms in victory, and Sokka’s chest fills with unreasonable false hope when Suki’s shining eyes find him. Then Yue launches herself into Suki’s arms, gets spun around a foot above the floor by her girlfriend. Sokka has to wonder, then, as he looks on like a deflated balloon, if maybe that batshit boardwalk fortune-teller from all those years back was _right_ when she said his future was full of self-inflicted anguish, and if he’s just _putting_ himself in these situations, only to sit back and let it all trample over him like a herd of bison.

It’s shitty.

He needs sleep. And the bassy pop music isn’t helping.

He’s hefting himself upright when a flash of pink bounds into the room and latches onto Suki and Yue. “I’m here, I’m here!” Ty Lee singsongs, relieving them of her weight only to set her hands on Suki’s shoulders, bounce up and down behind her like she’s on a pogo stick. “I’m ready! I’m on Suki’s team! Is it my turn? Can someone put on Blackpink? Please?” She twirls on the ball of her foot, somehow spots Sokka’s lonely, lackluster presence across the room in the low light. “Oh my god, hi Sokka!” She waves vigorously. Sokka’s wave back is pretty pathetic, and he regrets not imbuing it with the last of his energy when Azula wanders up to Ty Lee, follows her gaze to smirk at Sokka.

It’s enough to make Sokka get up. He’s dizzier on his feet, but he should probably find Aang, alert him that he’s turning in for the night, lest he wake up tomorrow to the same lecture Aang’s given him every time he’s ever dipped without warning.

But… Aang. He’s definitely not watching the K-pop dance-off, and Katara’s nowhere in sight. Sokka utters a laugh to himself, weaves between the people blocking the living room doorway. He’s frowning at the stairs, wondering if Ubering might be his best option—but he’s cheap and requires at least _one_ person to split the fare with him—when he feels a hand at his lower back, insistent.

“Um,” Sokka chuckles uncomfortably, “sorry, not interested.”

“Are you leaving already?”

Sokka turns faster than he thought himself capable, comes nose to nose with… “Zuko!” he squawks, flinging his arms around Zuko’s shoulders. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

“I’m sure.” Slowly, Zuko pats Sokka on the back.

“When did you get here?” Sokka asks, muffled into Zuko’s shoulder. He smells good again, like… weed. And Zuko. Sokka hums.

“I came with Ty Lee,” Zuko answers. Then, staggering back a step with Sokka’s weight, “Are you sleeping on me?”

“I thought you were dead,” Sokka sighs. He nuzzles into Zuko’s shoulder. “I thought about going to your uncle, asking if he’d seen you alive in the past two weeks, but then I thought, you know… _boundaries_ … And I thought about auditioning for Spirit, just to see it for myself that you weren’t dead… but it took me ages to find your website, and let me tell you, it was pretty crappy. Outdated hyperlinks, old team pictures. Don’t get me started on the swirly font. You should get someone on that. Suki could build you a cool website! Not that she’s not busy. But, like, I’m sure _someone_ would be willing—”

“Sokka.”

“Mmh.” Sokka yawns lengthily.

“Okay,” Zuko says, resolute. He takes Sokka by the shoulders, backs him toward the stairs, where he pushes Sokka to sit on a step.

Sokka gives him a lazy smile. “You gonna go join the K-pop dance battle?” He reaches for Zuko’s face, but Zuko only snorts, takes him by the fingers and squeezes.

“No. I’m gonna find Aang, I just saw him outside. I’ll be right back.”

Zuko disappears. Sokka rests his head against the wall. A girl kneels beside him, offers to get him water, but he waves her off with a smile.

“Sokka.” Someone—Zuko—shakes at his shoulder. “Get up.”

Sokka peels open his eyes. “Where’re we going?” he breathes. He’s irrationally pleased by the sudden appearance of his fake boyfriend, bounces to his feet like he’s awake and sober.

“To mine.” Zuko winds his arm around Sokka’s waist.

“What?” Sokka whines. “I don’t wanna take the bus. It’ll lull me to sleep. Public transport does that.”

“It’s a five-minute walk. You’ll live.”

Sokka gapes at Zuko’s profile. “We’re that far north?”

One side of Zuko’s mouth quirks. “It’s clearly past your bedtime.”

“Fuck off,” Sokka says absently. It’s no wonder he doesn’t recognize the houses around him, much less the fact they’re in a sleepy residential neighborhood. He turns, lifts a hand to flatten Zuko’s bangs down over his eyes.

“I’m rescuing you!” Zuko huffs, and he has to do a circa-2010 Bieber flick to get his hair out of his field of vision. “Stop making it harder than it already is.”

“I did miss you, Oscar the Grouch,” Sokka coos.

Zuko side-eyes him. “I’m not gonna ask.”

That’s how Sokka finds out Zuko’s dad never let him watch kids’ shows.

They stop outside a trim duplex with a nice garden out front, lush with hydrangeas and cabbage and a stocky apple tree, all sleeping soundly, surrounded by healthy grass and under the beam of a flickering streetlamp. Crickets chirp in the night, no echoes of K-pop to be heard. Zuko digs in his pocket for his keys.

“You live _here_?” Sokka scoffs. “Alone?! This is a _Gran Gran_ -caliber garden!”

“I don’t do the gardening,” Zuko mutters. “And I have housemates, and neighbors, and it’s the middle of the night. Shut _up_.”

Zuko leads Sokka inside and through several dark, winding halls. At the end of one, they reach a door that Zuko pushes open.

There’s not much to the room beyond. The windows are old but nice and wide, shades thrown open, and in the moonlight, Sokka can make out a twin bed, a dresser, a hamper, a nightstand. The bed is sheathed in black, neatly made. In fact, there’s almost no evidence of habitation in the room.

“This looks like a serial killer’s room,” Sokka whispers as he leans in the doorway.

“It’s mine.” Zuko stalks over to the bed, sweeps the covers aside. “There, you happy? Take your shoes off.”

Sokka blinks at him, then laughs. “You know, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble and just kept up ignoring me.” He strides to Zuko’s bed, where he sits and unties his shoes.

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Zuko rubs a hand over his face. “Stay here, I’m gonna get you water.”

Sokka cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t say _where else would I go?_ because Zuko’s already trudged off down the dark hall.

Left to his own devices, Sokka meanders to Zuko’s dresser. In one drawer, there’s loads of neatly-bunched ankle socks in varying colors and patterns, not a rogue, pair-less sock in sight. He’s not sure if that strengthens or breaks the serial killer argument.

Zuko makes Sokka jump when he enters, glass of water in hand, and asks, “Did you want something?”

“Just… checking out your digs,” says Sokka.

“My socks?”

“Your digs.” Sokka takes the glass, “Thanks,” and drains it in one gulp.

“The bathroom’s next door,” Zuko informs him. He snatches the empty glass from Sokka’s hand. “In case you… need it.” He raises the glass, sets it down on that tiny nightstand. He sits to unlace his clunky boots.

Sokka, hands linked behind his back, whistles absently and takes a few steps nearer to Zuko. “So… how’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

Sokka’s eyes narrow. “Just fine?”

“Yeah.”

Sokka sits beside him, drums his fingers against the sheets. “So… we’re both sleeping in this… Twin XL?”

“I don’t even know if it’s extra long.” Zuko tosses his boots toward the door, less respectful with them than he’d been in Sokka’s room. “But…” Zuko lifts his eyes, waveringly hesitant. “Yeah. Sorry. I just thought it’d be easier to come here than—”

“No, no, it’s fine! It’s great. Thank you. For bringing me here, I mean. Maybe not extra long, but… extra _cozy_.” Sokka chuckles, and the sound trails off into a sigh.

Five minutes later, the lights are off, the blinds are closed, and Zuko and Sokka are on their backs, side by side and in the bed, naked down to their boxers.

“My shoulder’s hanging off,” Sokka says to the ceiling.

Beside him, Zuko murmurs, “Maybe try being less broad.”

Sokka coughs up a laugh. “Is that a compliment to my body or an insult to my intelligence?”

Zuko sighs, sits up to drag the blanket over them both. “Don’t worry about it.” His back lands with a thud against the mattress. “Go to sleep.”

“What if I fall off?”

“It’s two feet.”

“That’s two more feet than I want to fall!”

Sokka hears and feels it when Zuko turns to look at him. So… he looks back, sees just the vague, dark outline of him. “I don’t have much fight left in me, Sokka, I’ve been up since five.” Zuko sighs again, deeply out his nose. “And I thought you were tired!”

“I guess your intriguing serial killer room perked me up. It’s been an eventful night.”

Zuko snorts, rolls his head away.

A few seconds pass. Sokka says, “Only serial killers wake up at five. Now I know two: you. And Katara.” He rolls onto his side, head propped in his hand. “Bet you weren’t expecting to pick up a burden like me at your little dance people party.” He frowns, picks at the hem of the sheet covering them both. “I guess I kind of ended your evasive streak.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.” Zuko swallows. “I knew you’d be there, anyway. I was with Ty Lee when Suki texted her. We were sending acceptance emails for Spirit.” He pauses. “You’re not a burden.”

Sokka relaxes his head into his palm. Zuko’s house is cold, but it’s warm with him close. “Bet Ty Lee’s place is a bit more… _lived-in_ than this.”

“Stuffed animals galore.” The sheets rustle as Zuko shifts. “I’ve never seen so much Gudetama in one place.”

“Gude-what?”

“It’s this… cute… egg? Never mind.”

“A cute _egg_.”

“Sokka.” Zuko probably means to swat him with how fast he moves, but his depth perception must be off in the dark because his knuckles barely graze Sokka’s chest. Sokka’s eyes have adjusted enough to watch Zuko’s fingers curl into a fist, then drop to the sheets. “How, uh. How are you?”

“Fine.” Sokka holds his breath. Then, “Nah, just kidding, I won’t stop there. I’m… decent! Teaching is kind of a shitshow this time of the semester ‘cos we released the first 166 project last week and the learning curve is steep as fuck and the students are all stressed as fuck so I feel bad whenever I’m even _breathing_ instead of helping someone.” He takes a breath, then, because he _can_ now, eyes on Zuko’s pale fist. “But Aang and Toph and I finally have a gym routine down! I’m getting my gains back, dude!” He grins. “Even… even if it means I’ll be sore as fuck until we get into the swing of things. And Toph can bench more than me.”

Under the cover of darkness, Zuko’s eyes flicker to him. “I thought you looked bigger.”

“Really?”

Zuko smiles, shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Well, it’s only been two weeks. At least cop a feel and see if my arm’s firmer.” He holds his flexed arm out above Zuko, who lifts his hands tentatively.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling for,” Zuko murmurs. His thumb digs into Sokka’s bicep.

Sokka’s hand shakes a bit with the effort to keep flexing. “A change in firmness!”

“Uh… maybe?” Zuko’s nose crinkles and he prods some more. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“Ugh! You’re useless, Zuko!” Sokka lets his forearm come to rest on Zuko’s stomach. And it’s not casual at all—Sokka’s highly aware of it, every nerve on edge, debating with each passing second whether to just recoil. “You know, I’m sure it’s getting old for you, shouldering all the hotness in our fake relationship. Not to worry. Give me some time, then we’ll call it an even split. Or maybe you-me, sixty-forty.”

“What the hell are you even talking about,” Zuko gripes as he rubs a hand across his eyes. “You don’t think you’re _hot_?”

Sokka frowns in thought, eyebrows lifted. “ _Well_ …”

“Stop fucking fishing for compliments, asshole.” Zuko shoves at Sokka’s shoulder. “You’re… you _are_ hot.” He turns his eyes to the ceiling. “Firmness notwithstanding. And you already knew that.”

When Sokka says nothing, Zuko glances at him, as predicted. Sokka smirks, tells him, “Thanks, baby,” as Zuko cranes his arm, tugs Sokka’s hair tie free. Sokka’s hair falls to frame his eyes, and he blows it out of the way.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Zuko says, quiet. Like last time, he snaps the hair tie onto Sokka’s wrist, and then, taking a deep breath, rolls onto his side, back to Sokka.

Sokka’s wrist dangles over Zuko’s waist still, hair tie a dark band across his brown skin. Zuko doesn’t seem to move, not even to breathe, and Sokka feels like he’s on the world’s slowest autopilot as he runs his palm from Zuko’s waist to mid-back.

He withdraws, fast, when Zuko turns bodily to face him. The sheets lay low at their hips, tangled around Zuko’s legs from all his back-and-forth. Sokka feels a hot flush come over his face, a heavy warm front moving against the room’s chilled air. He’s still up on his elbow, and Zuko’s head is on the pillow, golden eyes cast in deep black shadow. Sokka can see that they’re open, but he can’t tell what Zuko’s looking at, if it’s him.

Time drips by. Zuko holds his hands close to his chest. Sokka listens to him breathe.

“Are you sleeping with your eyes open?” he whispers. “ _Because_ … that’s totally serial killer—”

Sokka sees it coming, sees the laziness in Zuko’s movements as he covers Sokka’s mouth with his palm. It works as a silencer, if that’s what Zuko’s going for. Sokka doesn’t say a word. Zuko sighs out his nose.

“I can’t hold my arm like this all night,” he says. And Sokka says nothing, but maybe Zuko feels it when Sokka smiles into his calloused skin. “Good,” mutters Zuko, and he lowers his hand. It could be an accident when his fingertips brush Sokka’s chest, but it’s less likely when his hand finds it place at Sokka’s sternum, at the top of his stomach.

Most of the time, Sokka’s a _think first, do later_ kind of guy. But he’s not sure he has even half a coherent thought as he displaces his hand from beneath his head, settles it like a bridge across that space on the mattress between them, shifts his weight onto his forearm. There’s no excuse, really, to think not a single thing, because he gives himself ample opportunity in his slowness. But he just doesn’t, and he leans down closer to Zuko, counting down his own heartbeats before kissing him, nose pressing to Zuko’s cheek.

Zuko licks his lips as they part a second later and Sokka registers his own sluggish impulsivity. _Shit_ , he thinks, until Zuko takes Sokka’s hand, draws it toward his waist again, and, once again, Sokka’s inner voice says _shit_ , just with a wholly different intonation.

Zuko sighs out a stream of air that makes Sokka’s lips tingle, and he leans up with purpose, driving Sokka’s heart rate through the roof as their mouths touch again, firmer, faster. Sokka hears and feels as Zuko’s feet pedal the blankets down lower, probably not with the express purpose of ridding them of the blanket, but just because he can’t keep them from moving, and it makes Sokka crazy. He squeezes at Zuko’s waist, and Zuko’s fingers spread across the arch of his ribs, stroke down over the hair on his stomach.

Zuko makes a sound like a whimper, and it’s like a flare shot into the night in Sokka’s head. Carefully, decisively, he presses Zuko onto his back, all the while struggling to twist himself out of the sheets so he can climb over him, kiss him on his wet mouth—but Zuko turns his head to the side. His fingers clutch at the meat of Sokka’s shoulders, and Sokka whispers, in a panic, “What is it?” only for Zuko to smile, gaze on the wall, and shake his head, a faint rustle against the pillowcase.

“Slow down,” is what he breathes, and Sokka bites his lip, blood coursing through his face. Sokka lays his forehead to Zuko’s temple, feels strong arms twine around his neck. And there he breathes, in and out, until Zuko pets a hand down the back of his hair, scratches gently at the base of his neck. “I’m tired,” Zuko says, and Sokka nods, feels a wave of indescribable fluttering roll in a wave from his heart to his stomach. As he moves onto his side again, Zuko lets him go, but he also takes Sokka’s hand, curves it round himself as he turns away.

Dizzied, Sokka moves in close to hold Zuko. His arm rises and falls as Zuko’s ribcage fills and drains of air. The sheets stay crumpled at the foot of the bed.

* * *

A curt knock wakes Sokka. Half-wakes him, because he doesn’t open his eyes, but he does groan and stretch out his legs. Feels he’s on his back, that his mouth is all dry, that Zuko… right, _Zuko_ , is beside him, arm resting across his chest.

A second knock.

“What?” Zuko rasps, vexed, then clears his throat. He sits up, using Sokka for balance.

“Sorry if it’s early.” A baritone voice from the other side of the door. “Just wanted to check if you had laundry.”

“I do,” Zuko says. Sokka peels his eyes open to watch Zuko rub his fingers over his brow. “But—”

“Okay, coming in!” goes the baritone announcement, and then the door opens forcefully, banging against its perpendicular wall. The voice belongs to a hulking blond dude in pink swim trunks and a sleeveless top, toting a laundry basket, and Zuko nearly chokes as he hastens to drag the sheets over Sokka, who can’t help but laugh. The blond takes a moment to process Sokka’s presence, and then, “Oh— _oh!_ I didn’t know you had guests! Sorry! I’m not looking, I’m not looking, I’m covering my eyes, I swear!” He curves his hand around his eye like half a horse’s blinders to blockade Sokka and Zuko from his view, still reaching for Zuko’s hamper to empty into his own.

“Um, that’s Brock, my housemate,” says Zuko. Sokka props himself on his elbows. Together, they watch Brock shake Zuko’s clothes out into his own hamper. “Brock, this is… Sokka.”

“Hi, Brock,” greets Sokka.

Brock uncovers his eyes. “Hey, man! Wait, shoot, sorry!” He panics, shields them again. “Nice to meet you!” He then hefts the laundry basket up against his side.

“So,” says Sokka, which forces Brock to stall halfway out the door, “you do Zuko’s laundry for him?”

Brock gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, I guess I help Zuko out now and then!”

Sokka smirks, and Zuko must be ready for it, because he’s already rolled his eyes elsewhere. “You do his laundry for him,” Sokka deadpans. Then he cackles, flops back on the mattress to clap his hands. He thinks of neatly balled-up ankle socks.

Brock smiles, sheepish, but Zuko gets the first word in. “Brock is a very generous and helpful person,” Zuko grits, and Brock must know him well, because he salutes them both and takes leave, even closes the door behind him. “Stop laughing!” Zuko pinches Sokka on the thigh.

Sokka tilts his head on the pillow to look at Zuko, sighs out the last few chuckles that rattle his chest. “Hey, look at me,” he says, gentle.

Zuko is obstinate, slightly pink in the cheeks. Eventually, he does.

Sokka smiles at him, mystified by his own endearment. “Have you _ever_ done your own laundry?”

Zuko scoffs, then pulls his knees into his chest. “Once. When I moved in. I almost broke the washer. It… flooded somehow.”

Sokka laughs with delight, laces his fingers over his chest. “What’re you gonna do when you have to, I don’t know, live on your own?”

Zuko shakes his head, lets his head hang between his knees. “Drop a fortune on dry cleaning. Marry for domesticity.”

Sokka hums in accord. He rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it is too late for you to learn, by, like, watching a video on Youtube, or just asking _Sokka_. All hope is lost. You’ll murder every washer you meet, and the washers of the world will come to know you, to _fear_ you, to sense your approach—for it is the step of _doom_ —to _develop_ artificial consciences expressly to call for help from their fellow, more _powerful_ IoT devices and beg them for one of two last resorts: escape from you, or death on their own terms.” He peeks at Zuko, whose face, lacking in amusement, makes up for it with disbelief.

“Let me ask you something,” Zuko says. Something faint tugs crookedly at his lips, then. “If-slash-when you talk to a therapist, do you give them a list of frequently-used words and phrases? Just in case they get lost?”

Sokka licks and bites his lower lip. “Touché.” He grins. “I think my dad could use one of those. He claims he can’t keep up with me because I _went to college and got smart_ , but shit, man, I’ve always been like this.”

Zuko smiles, ever so subtle, and runs his fingers through his messy hair. “You should know I buy Brock’s groceries. Because of the laundry. And the bathroom cleaning. And the… gardening, not that curb appeal is something I need…”

“Dude, fuck,” Sokka laughs, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up.

“I sometimes wash dishes!”

“Brock’s gonna have the time of his life picking up some hobbies when you finally leave,” says Sokka. “But, you know. You grew up in… _Pebble Beach_. I think I get it. Silver spoon, and all.”

It’s probably not the right thing to say, but Sokka would’ve went and said it anyway, even if he’d had enough sense for forethought. Zuko is silent, but looks at him still, lips pressed tightly together. Then, “Yeah,” he says, in that hoarse voice.

Sokka stands. “I should… probably go.” He picks up his shorts, strewn carelessly on the floor when he’d stripped the night prior. “I don’t even have a toothbrush here, or anything, so.”

“Brock has some extras.”

Sokka lifts his gaze to Zuko, who’s inspecting his nails now. “Oh, _ha, ha_.”

Zuko shrugs, smiles passively.

Sokka, fully dressed, goes to perch on the bed’s edge again, curls his fingers around Zuko’s ankle. “Look, don’t run yourself ragged doing all this Spirit stuff, okay?” He’s not sure why he’s saying this. Nevertheless, he plows on. “I… I’m less than thrilled to report that I seem to hang out with your sister more than you nowadays, which… I don’t know. Isn’t how it should be, even if we’re just…” He nods at Zuko. “ _This_.” _Fake, lying. However you’d like to put it._

Zuko’s look is sly behind his thick bangs. “Are you worried I’m _lonely_ , Sokka?”

“No! Psh. No. I know you have your, uh. People.” He shakes his head swiftly, retracts his weird hold on Zuko’s leg. “I… just… I like it when you’re around.” He grimaces, looks at a nick in Zuko’s white wall. _Try being more pathetic, I dare you_. “ _Aang_ likes it when you’re around. Katara—Katara texted me after your little boba date, and she… let me pull it up.”

By some miracle, his phone is still in the pocket of his shorts. He opens his messages, taps on his conversation with his sister. He clears his throat in anticipation of lifting his voice a few octaves. “She said, and I quote, ‘I like him! I think he’s one of those people everyone thinks is mysterious because they’re not all _in your face_ with their stuff, and everyone tends to favor the lowest-hanging fruit, those social butterfly people with all their best assets in a window display.’ Yeah, I know, she gets intense like this more often than you’d think. Then she made a metaphor that has something to do with your _layers_ and you being really thoughtful which kinda just makes me think of Shrek, but then she also said some mumbo jumbo about you being hot, which… I don’t even wanna think about yet, because, on a totally serious note, I can’t say I’ve ever talked _boys_ like that with my sister. Um.”

He blinks, pockets his phone. “I think I got off track. That was meant to be a compliment, by the way. Of the highest order. From Katara. _My point is_ , you should… be around. If you want.” The back of his neck is hot when he rubs it. “I mean, I also have shit to do. _All the time_. But I can multitask! I can and I do and I would. But it’s okay if you can’t. I still like company. People—like company. Some people.”

Without fuss, Sokka gives Zuko those several, quiet seconds that follow. He’d give him a full minute, even. Hours, days. Because… all of that, just to say _I like hanging out with you_? It’d take a pickaxe and some sincere effort and sweat to unearth that message from all of his prattle. He might as well stick his foot in his mouth.

“Let me know when you come up with that glossary,” says Zuko. Sokka peers up at him. He’s half-smiling in that way of his, eyes cast down.

Sokka snorts and rubs his hand over his face. “You’ll be the first to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)


	6. 06 - sweet night

“That… literally makes zero sense.”

“Read a book, dipshit. Archimedes’ principle.”

“If you can drop a block of concrete into water and _make it float_ , then… magic is also real. I mean, _I_ believe certain types of magic _are_ real, but, like, wizard magic. With wands.” Aang turns his head pointedly toward Toph. “If you can make concrete float, wizard magic is real!”

Toph, clutching a twenty-five pound plate, speaks not another word to Aang until they’ve finished their twelfth Russian twist on the floor. Then they set the heavy plate down, stand up off the mat, and approach Aang. Menacingly. “Do you _hear_ yourself? _Certain types of magic are_ real _but concrete can’t float_?”

Aang’s waning concentration on his bench press is… well, worrying Sokka, to say the least. The last thing he needs is over two hundred pounds knocking the living daylights out of his best friend because he refuses to believe in sound science.

“Maybe you can put that down until we’ve settled this,” Sokka says tentatively, reaching for the bar in Aang’s hands.

“I was done anyway.” Aang sets the bar into the rack, then sits up, legs astride the bench, readily facing Toph’s combative stance and their fabulously appropriate, sweat-darkened _Them Fatale_ shirt.

Sokka casts a glance around the weight room. No one seems to suspect that one of his friends is ready to throw hands with heavy, blunt objects within close reach, whilst the other is, most likely, just postulating pure bullshit because he’d rather Toph yell the truth at him than ask for it himself.

Sokka shakes his head, wipes the sweat from his upper lip.

“How can you say concrete can’t float when they’ve been hosting the Concrete Canoe Competition for over thirty years?!” Toph demands, arms outstretched. “I was there last year! I _sat_ in our school’s concrete canoe, _while_ it floated!”

Aang shrugs, sets his elbows on his knees. “It’s fake. The government staged it. That’s all I’ve got.”

Toph’s nostrils flare. Then they swivel to face the direction they’d last heard Sokka’s voice. “Is he really this dumb or am I falling for his dumbass bait?”

“Sorry,” Aang says swiftly, almost dejectedly. He rubs his palm over his fuzzy head, and his gaze falls to the floor. “I’m sorry. I am baiting you. I’m just feeling… _belligerent_. There was this dude in my discussion today who wouldn’t stop interrupting while I was trying to teach, wouldn’t even raise his hand before he’d blurt something. _Completely_ irreverent. And he was so— _argumentative_ , and _hostile_ , and he was wasting everybody’s time! Like, I have _fifty_ minutes to teach this shit—no, it’s not _shit_ , it’s actually super important, sockets and RPCS are awesome—but it’s all gonna be on the midterm, which is coming the fuck up, and if it means my students are gonna have to work twice as hard to learn everything that this _one_ dude kept me from explaining… It’s just not fair!”

Sokka looks at Toph, and Toph, eyebrows disappearing under their bangs, mutters, “There it is.” Then they feel for Aang’s shoulder, give it a few hearty smacks. “There, there. What’s this fucknut’s name? Sokka and I can beat him up.”

“No.” Aang laughs weakly, scratching at his neck. He gets off the bench, nods and smiles at a man hovering nearby, waiting his turn for the bench press. “Were we done? We can just go.”

Sokka didn’t get around to his fifth set, but by then he doesn’t much care.

“I was gonna talk to him after class,” murmurs Aang, taking Toph’s arm. Sokka swiftly puts the weights back, smiling sheepishly at the expectant, expressionless hoverer preparing to pounce, then hurries after his friends. Along the way, he swipes up Aang’s forgotten phone and towel. “But I didn’t wanna be all _Thatcher, can I speak to you after class?_ in front of everyone like he’s not just a year younger than me, so he escaped with the crowd before I could get to him.”

“Hey, man,” Sokka says, coming up on Aang’s other side, “if that happens again, just email Professor Yangchen and CC me on it. Or even, like, go talk to her, and I’ll come with you. That’s not even remotely okay.” Sokka’s eyes narrow. “ _Thatcher_. I’ll keep my ears peeled during office hours.”

Aang smiles timidly, but swings his free arm across Sokka’s shoulders, even if they have to part no less than ten seconds later to fit through the turnstiles.

Outside, Aang says, “Anyway, can we talk about something else? Something happy.”

“I got a free taco at lunch,” says Toph. “Four for the price of three, baby.”

“Weirdly, that does cheer me up,” remarks Aang.

Sokka’s scrolling through the junk on his lockscreen. He hasn’t heard anything from Zuko since he left his place over a week ago. And… he’s _tried_ not to think about it, the fact that Zuko still hasn’t reached out, even after Sokka’s rather chaotic, heartfelt confessional of friendship. _I like it when you’re around_. Fuck. He can’t help but cringe whenever he reimagines it all, recalls the confusion in Zuko’s guarded face. To Sokka, friendship means comfort, comfort that he can warmly sink into the way he does with Aang and Toph, inundated by that feeling of ease and acceptance. Zuko… being friendly with Zuko feels more like teetering on the edge of a cliff, a cliff over a pit of fire. It makes sense, in a way, as even their acquaintanceship is predicated on lies. But then, it’s the lies that hold them _together_ —again, _teetering_. And that feeling of imbalance, it doesn’t even begin to include how Sokka feels about his offhand urges to kiss Zuko of late. He hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on that, lets his conscience swim only in the shallow end, where the truths are easy to swallow. Truths, like: _why shouldn’t I want to kiss my fake boyfriend? We’ve kissed before. He’s my fake boyfriend. It’s fun_. And wading any deeper would mean drowning, so he simply doesn’t. His mind is busy enough to grant him that escape.

But Zuko’s name is on his lockscreen. He checks the time—7:23pm—and scrolls down to Zuko’s messages, the most recent from only a half hour ago.

_Tuesday 6:44pm_

**zuko**

hey

ty lee said you should come watch practice if u want

it starts at 7

_6:58pm_

**zuko**

oh

it’s in the parking garage behind the freshman dorms

lol that’s kinda important

“What is he doing?” Toph mutters.

Sokka looks up. He’s stopped in the middle of the walkway to the gym, and Aang and Toph have stopped with him. Aang’s smile, aimed directly at him, is giddy.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Sokka huffs, pocketing his phone. His mental gears churn at top speed, calculating how long it’d take him to get from here to the freshman dorms. Eleven minutes, maybe, if he speed-walks through the throngs of dinner-goers. Seven if he runs.

Aang tickles his fingers against Sokka’s elbow, grinning. “It’s Zuko, isn’t it?”

“Where?” Toph asks urgently. “Is he coming?” They clutch tighter to Aang’s arm, then hiss, “What should we do to embarrass Sokka?”

Sokka gapes. “What? He’s not _here_. He just…” He clears his throat. “Asked me to go watch Spirit practice, is all. Like. Right now.”

Aang’s enthusiasm is admirably unfading. “And you’re going, right?”

“I mean… I’m kind of late already.”

“Dude,” Aang breathes, laughing, “they dance ’til, like, fucking midnight. You have time. Just _go_.”

“We won’t follow you there, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” adds Toph. Aang dutifully nods in agreement.

Sokka looks between the both of them. “Okay,” he says slowly, ever-skeptical. “Well, here’s your phone.” He presses it into Aang’s hand.

Aang accepts his phone, always with the same nonchalance, never a _shit, I thought I’d lost it!_ And then, it’s as if Sokka’s turned invisible. “It’s really cute,” Aang says, glancing down at Toph, “every time Zuko and I come out of class together, I go: _sooo_ , how’re things with _Soookka_? And he gets all flustered.” He beams. “Doesn’t tell me _anything_ , he’s a pretty private guy, but—”

“I’m right here!” Sokka shrieks. Toph smirks. Aang barely flinches. “But—not anymore! Because I’m leaving! _Now_! So—bye!” He sets off, grumbling under his breath.

Predictably, Toph calls after him: “Make sure you do a few push-ups before he sees you! Keep the pump going!”

The indigo of night overcomes the sunset shades of pink and orange as Sokka weaves down the busy main street, thick with students heading to libraries to set up camp for the evening and troupes of friends heading for takeout. He doesn’t need to ask himself why a dance group would feel the need to practice in a parking garage, of all places—their school is overcrowded as it is, and attempting to reserve studio space must be even more of a nightmare than doing so for study rooms.

As darkness descends, the air goes brisk, comfortably prickling at Sokka’s arms. He dodges a car that swerves in a hurry on its way out of the garage, and heads up the slope with an odd feeling of trepidation in his gut. Only once he’s climbed several levels do the echoes of music reach him, and he rounds a corner to see one, two… perhaps fifteen people in the garage’s far corner, clear of cars.

Sokka approaches warily. He can make out Zuko, standing with his hands on his hips, beside him Ty Lee and her long swinging ponytail. They’re huddled together, heads bowed. Wordless EDM plays from a tiny bluetooth speaker, and Sokka has to marvel at the dancers’ resting states; some on the ground, stretching, while others practice hoisting each other above their heads like it’s a normal thing to do. Among them, Sokka spots Suki and Azula, keeping warm by hopping in place, hugging one another tightly. They both freeze when Azula makes some remark, only for them to methodically separate. Then Azula promptly grabs onto Suki’s shoulder for balance, hooks her other hand under the arch of her foot, and straightens her leg until she’s in a full standing split.

Sokka leans into a concrete column, a safe distance away. Just looking at her makes him wince. He can just barely touch his own toes. And like a pair of ballerinas in a jewelry box, they switch roles; Suki pulls her leg into a 180-degree angle. Sokka almost sighs wistfully. She _had_ always been so bendy.

Then Ty Lee and Zuko draw apart. Ty Lee claps her hands, skitters over to the group on her tiptoes, and pauses the music on her phone. “Hi, hello, we’re back!” she trills, waving an arm to gather attention. “Let’s take it from the top! And watch your formation. Just mark it—everybody mark it except for my breakers, you do it full out on the mat. I just don’t want another foot in another face, okay? Bloody noses are so last week.” She laughs, then walks backward a few steps. “ _Formation_ , though! People, please! I’ve got my eye on all of you, and if you’re not in your window…” She shrugs, tilts her head to the side. “That’s right, Azula, be afraid.” Ty Lee gives Zuko a slap on his butt, urges him into the mix as the dancers settle into starting formation.

Ty Lee inspects them, hums. “Azula, one more step to your left. Xinru, back up a bit, you need to be in line with—perfect. Okay! Five, six, seven, eight.”

Zuko is front and center, and with the music, he seems to indescribably come alive. Sokka can only watch him, transfixed, as he moves with full control of every inch of his body. And he seems to know it, too; there’s a sparkle to his eye and a smugness to his mouth and a flaunting theatricality to his whole being. It’s a far cry from the Zuko Sokka’s seen stand on the party’s sidelines, uninterested, unmoving. Perhaps it’s all the more special for that reason, too, when he moves like… like _this_.

The beat drops at the chorus. Zuko turns to the boy beside him, who links his hands and bows. Sokka blinks as Zuko steps a foot on his waiting palms, and is boosted into a backflip—easy, casual, as if he’s done it a hundred times. No doubt he has.

And… objectively, Sokka knew Zuko could dance. He’s on a dance team, for fuck’s sake—that makes him a dancer. But Zuko doesn’t talk much about himself—Sokka realizes, then, that he doesn’t ask him nearly enough—and doesn’t give others the opportunity to talk about him, either. So when Zuko takes what looks like a suicidal dive toward the mat-covered concrete, and catches himself in a precarious one-handed balance, Sokka’s on the verge of losing his mind.

Zuko twists into a movement that’d be impossible to visualize had Sokka not seen it before his eyes—his legs in a V in the air whilst his torso doesn’t leave the ground, spinning. Sokka’s jaw might as well be on the ground now, right beside his feet.

Unconsciously, Sokka shakes his head. Zuko blends back into formation with the group around him, and Sokka watches, arms crossed over his chest, as Zuko flashes an invisible audience the most wicked of smiles, his hands running over his body in a way that should be… well, fucking illegal. The music fades out. Sokka turns his forehead against the cold concrete pillar. Ty Lee claps again, and the critical rant she launches into is but a blur to Sokka.

“I thought it seemed like he was giving a show,” someone says, dangerously near.

Sokka whips around. A few feet away, leaning into the closest wall, is a girl with jet-black hair and a black, floor-skimming trench coat. She taps long black nails against her chin, and takes a step toward Sokka. She’s also threateningly tall.

As if reading his mind, “Don’t tell me I’m tall,” she mutters, commanding but monotonous with a voice that’s maybe smoked a couple hundred cigarettes. “I’ve only heard that everyday of my life since puberty.”

Sokka can’t get out a single word. “Uh—”

She smirks. It’s devilishly subtle, the same, secretive way Zuko smiles. “You’re Sokka.”

It’s like Sokka’s a cadet and she’s just told him _at ease, soldier_. “Yes,” he croaks. He doesn’t say _ma’am_ , just barely.

“Mai,” she says. The name is familiar. She assesses him, as if with every blink of her eyes, she’s taking another mental image, downloading it, filing it somewhere into her brain to use as blackmail. Sokka thinks he probably looks to have just pissed his pants… at least, that’s how he feels. “You know, you’re not what I expected. But I think I can see why Zuko’s into you.” She comes up beside him, joins him at his covert vantage point of the dance team.

Sokka laughs, awkward and throaty. “Could just be my top-shelf sense of humor and my scintillating intellect.”

Mai squints, digests him head to toe again. “I mean, if that helps you sleep at night, sport.” She turns her gaze toward the dancers, sighing. “Could also be that you’ve got a nice ass. We’ll never know, and Zuko will never tell us. I could get it out of him, but it’s so much effort, man.”

Sokka stares at her profile. He doesn’t feel safe looking away just yet. _Who knows what she’s hiding in that long coat?_

“Anyway,” Mai says, “speaking of Zuko telling us nothing, you probably have no idea who I am.” She smiles, sardonic, and extends her hand for Sokka to shake. He does, and at the clammy feel of his palm, her nose twitches with repulsion, but she doesn’t mention it. “Back home, Zuko and I were next door neighbors since we were four.” She nods at the dancers, and Sokka turns in time to watch Ty Lee demonstrate a complicated shuffle of her feet. “And that’s my girlfriend, who thinks you and Zuko are the cutest thing since teacup Pomeranians. She doesn’t know about puppy mills, though, so don’t tell her.”

 _“Ty Lee?”_ is all Sokka can say, baffled, because all he can think seeing Ty Lee and Mai is _oil and water_.

“Yeah.” And when Mai smiles, eyes on Ty Lee, it clicks into place for Sokka. And anyhow, he thinks some MIT students a few years back figured out a way to emulsify oil in water. He feels Mai’s long fingers around his upper arm, which she must regret when she realizes his post-gym skin is just as tacky as his palm. Her nostrils flare, but again, she doesn’t say a word on it. “Let’s go sit. As much as I like to watch Ty Lee jump around, their practice is long. Believe me, you won’t last there all night.”

Sokka sits down in an empty parking spot next to Mai, closer to the Spirit dancers. The concrete wall sends pleasant chills from his shoulders to his fingertips. Ty Lee, spotting them both, sends a giddy wave their way. Sokka watches as Mai winks back. The music starts up again, and this time Ty Lee joins. Sokka’s head sags against the wall. He should probably ask Mai about her life, but his head is still reeling from the first runthrough.

“I’ve never,” he mutters, “ _ever_ seen anything like that in my life.”

“Like what?” Mai asks drily.

Sokka chokes on his words, emits an embarrassingly garbled noise as he points at Zuko. _Ah, there he goes again, with the boosted backflip_. _“That!”_

“I’d say _it’s just breakdancing_ , but apparently that’s only what the plebs call it.” Mai gives Sokka a look, a half-roll of her eyes. “But he _is_ really feeling himself tonight. Probably just showing off for you.” She snorts. “He has this whole sexy act he only pulls out when he’s competing, but it’s on full blast right now, man. It’s weird.” She unties and reties the laces of her big, clunky platform boot. “Remind me to make fun of him later.”

Sokka feels his cheeks warm, so he can’t look Mai in the eye. He wants to hear more about Zuko, is ready to beg her to tell him more, but feels he should be equitable. “So, w-when’d you and Ty Lee meet?”

From the deep pockets of her trench, Mai pulls out a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer, squeezes some into her palm. Sokka almost laughs. “Freshman year,” murmurs Mai, rubbing her hands together. “She and Zuko auditioned for Spirit first semester. I went to see the winter showcase, that’s when I met her.” She glances at Sokka, blank-faced. “Of course, all semester, Zuko never told me that the girl he always complained was engaging him in _unwelcome conversation_ at dance practice was cute and gay.”

Sokka dares to look her in the eye, amused.

Mai grimaces. “He can be like that sometimes.” She shakes it off, and her faint smile comes back. “But things worked out okay in the end.”

Sokka looks again at the dancers, just time for Zuko and his breaking peers to invert themselves in handstands. It’s when Zuko’s shirt slips up his stomach that Sokka really gets hot in the face, though he’s seen Zuko shirtless a number of times now. Maybe it’s the sharp, fluorescent garage lights, the sheen of exertion on his skin. Sokka coughs into his fist.

Mai smacks him on the back of his shoulder so hard he almost coughs up a lung—it’s like she’s burping a baby, but considering Sokka’s the baby, she’s hitting way harder. “Damn,” she chuckles, “you okay?”

“I’ve just.” Sokka laughs, quiet. “Sorry. You’re a veteran, you don’t get it. It’s my first time at the Spirit practice rodeo.”

“No, I still get it.” Mai leans her head against the concrete wall. “He’s really good.” Then she laughs, sudden. “I remember when Zuko was, like, six years old, his dad got him a _golf_ coach. Like… what the fuck? No six-year-old wants to putt unless the balls are fun colors and they’re playing on a fake pirate ship. Even when I was six, I hated his dad. But, anyway, Zuko sucked at golf, so they got rid of the coach.” She laces her fingers together in her lap, and Sokka looks at the gleam of her long, pointed nails, all at least a centimeter past the ends of her fingertips… except for the middle and pointer fingers on her left hand, which are neatly short. “Then he started ballet, gymnastics. Switched to hip-hop a few years later. _Ballroom_.” Mai’s eyebrows quirk at him. “He started b-boying when we got to high school. I’ve been to so many shows to watch him, man. And Azula, too. Do you know how many fucking times I’ve seen the fucking _Nutcracker_?” Her smile is wry. “But it doesn’t get old.” She pauses. “God. I sound like some nostalgic grandpa.” She almost seems to heave, but it passes.

Sokka has to smile. Perhaps it’s the thought of little Zuko dancing to Tchaikovsky, or little Mai sitting in the audience to watch. “You’ve been friends a long time, then.” He can’t seem to wrap his mind around the concept of having had a friend for almost two decades.

Mai nods, a tip of her chin. “Yeah. I didn’t really go after Zuko because I wanted to befriend him, though. And Azula played the annoying baby sister part really well until, like, thirteen. But he had an in-ground pool, I didn’t. Simple as that.” She huffs a laugh, quiet. “Not that I ever particularly liked swimming. I just liked the idea of sitting by a pool.”

Sokka hums, a faint quirk to his lips, eyes on his knees. “Valid.” Then he looks at Zuko again, amid some fantastic fan-kick.

“What’s your major again?” Mai asks. “Zuko probably told me that, at least. I forgot.”

“EECS.” Sokka looks at her from the corner of his eye.

She snorts. “Nerd.”

Sokka smiles, lifts his brows expectantly. “Come on, literally everyone’s a nerd here. Now you.”

“English.”

“Okay.”

Mai scans his eyes, then turns her face straight ahead. “With a concentration in Gothic literature.”

“Ha!” Sokka squawks victoriously. _“Nerd!”_

“Oh, fuck you,” she says, not unkind.

Sokka’s struck by that strange, warm feeling of getting along with someone new. Sure, he met plenty of people his first couple years at school, but he thinks, perhaps, that he’d begun to grow too comfortable in his social circles: his fellow TAs, his computer science friends, and the insular little group of Aang, Toph, Suki, and of course, Katara. Not that Sokka finds any fault in a tight-knit group of friends—he’d probably be dead without them—but he likes people. New people. New people like Mai, who’d probably just spook him if she brushed by on the street, a complete stranger and possibly the clerk at a Halloween store.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna keep badgering you with questions,” Mai says. “It’s kind of my job.”

Sokka snaps back to the present, glances sideways and laughs. “Nah, that’s great. Questions, I like questions! Unless there’s a mathematical proof involved, then I’ll need a few minutes.”

Mai shakes her head, the minutest of movements. “Right. I don’t do math, so. Where are you from?”

“Oh, easy.” Sokka flaps his hand at the air. “Canada, technically. Quebec. But, like, ten-ish years ago, my sister and my dad and I moved to Washington. I tell everyone I’m from Seattle, ‘cos no one usually knows Tacoma except maybe because of the airport, but we really live in Tacoma, so. Close enough. And now I’m here. In California.” He purses his lips. “On occupied Ohlone land.”

“Dude.” Mai sighs deeply. “Why’d you ever leave Canada?”

Sokka smiles, tight and bittersweet. “I didn’t really get it at the time, either.”

Mai doesn’t press. She asks him about his internship with Azula, and that, _that_ Sokka can rant about indefinitely.

“You know, I’m glad Ty Lee thought to ask me to come,” Sokka states. He and Mai are getting to their feet, asses numb, and it’s five past ten, which means practice is winding down. He and Mai have been talking for over two hours—probably longer than all the time Sokka’s spent speaking to Zuko combined—though they took a break to give Mai a chance to read the last chapter of _As I Lay Dying_ before her discussion the next morning whilst Sokka alternated between responding to his students’ project questions and reading texts from Toph ( _‘Aang says to "send him a pic of Zuko’s rippling abs wink"’_ and _‘Tell Azula I said hi. No like seriously right now go tell her’,_ shortly followed by: _‘Well did you tell her?’_ ). He dusts his hands off on his shorts. “Even if, like… Zuko didn’t actually want me here.”

Mai chuckles, clipped. “Oh, please,” she drawls. “He just doesn’t know how to ask.”

It’s like Sokka blinks and suddenly Ty Lee is there, sidling up to Mai. “Hi,” she murmurs, unusually quiet, and Mai says, “You’re all… damp,” even as she squeezes Ty Lee to her side. She barely comes up to Mai’s shoulder. Then Ty Lee’s eyes widen on Sokka, and she extricates herself from Mai only to fly bodily at him. “You came!” she squeals, hangs from his neck. “I didn’t know if Zuko ended up asking you! You know what? You need to give me your number. Zuko’s a really bad texter, as you might already know.” She lowers to her feet, takes Sokka by the shoulders in a strong grip. “You know, in case I need to reach you in an emergency.”

“Not to brag,” Mai interjects, utterly bored, “but I got Sokka’s number before you did.” It’s clearly not a big deal to her, but it does bring a smirk to her face when Ty Lee shouts, “What?! How dare you!” and stomps her sneakered foot.

“What did Mai do?” asks Zuko, drawing near. He has a little towel he dabs at his forehead with. He side-eyes Sokka, who now finds he can’t quite stand still, brimming with newfound nervous energy, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“She’s just trying to steal your boyfriend,” Ty Lee informs him and tucks herself back into Mai’s side.

“I’m gonna have to wash this coat after tonight,” mutters Mai, but she’s overshadowed by Suki, who pokes into their circle and says sternly, “Sokka, either you come with us now or we leave you behind. I’m hungry and I have an asshole of a procrastinating lab partner and a lab due at midnight!”

Sokka, looking at Zuko, who’s looking right back at him in shy, little bursts, clears his throat and airily says, “Yeah, coming.”

“Bye, all!” Suki skips away, waving, Azula on her heels. “See you Thursday!”

“Bye, Suki! I’ll miss you! Bye, Azula! I’ll also miss you!” calls Ty Lee, waving broadly. It makes Sokka smile.

He turns toward Zuko. “You coming?”

Zuko seems to exchange a glance with Mai that Sokka can’t read. But he tucks his towel into his bag and nods, so slight only Sokka might see. “Yeah.”

Like a butler in a doorway, Sokka bows slightly to Zuko, gestures for him to go forth. Suki and Azula have already disappeared into the stairwell. Zuko snorts and complies.

They’re on the stairs, side by side, when Sokka nudges Zuko’s shoulder with his own. “So… you’re good.”

Zuko’s eyes flit to him.

“Really, _really_ good.”

They step outside and the sky is blue-black. Suki and Azula walk briskly ahead. Sokka wraps both his arms around one of Zuko’s, facing his profile imploringly.

“Why would you keep that a secret?! That’s like… if I had a Nobel Prize this whole time and you only found out now!” Sokka wails, though his smile says he’s not all that mad. “Which I don’t, by the way. If I did, you’d know.”

“That’s pretty different,” says Zuko, because of course he’d say that.

“You went for the shock factor,” muses Sokka. He slips his fingers between Zuko’s, spirit reinvigorated when Zuko’s fingertips dig into his knuckles. “How devious. Well, I’m sure your plan worked just as you intended. That is, if your ideal outcome was my jaw on the floor, or whatever. And if it wasn’t—well, I still embarrassed myself in front of your best friend, which I think you’ll be happy to hear.”

Zuko smiles faintly. “Seemed like Mai liked you.”

“Well, I hope so,” huffs Sokka. “Otherwise she just suffered my presence for _hours_ straight, and that is no easy feat. I do it all day.” When Sokka looks over, Zuko’s eyes are fixed ahead again. “So, tell me,” he smiles wryly, “what the _fuck_ is that thing where you swing your legs around in the air but your body’s on the ground and _how_ do you do it?”

Zuko makes a soft sound like a laugh. “It’s called a windmill. Fairly standard.”

Sokka’s face loses all expression. _“Fairly standard,”_ he mocks, husky. “In that case, why don’t I get down on the street and do it right now?” He makes to squat, but Zuko gets him under the upper arm, hauls him to his feet in an impressive display of strength.

“You’ll hurt yourself.” Zuko’s lips twitch. A block ahead, Suki and Azula let themselves into their building. “Maybe leave the windmills to me.”

“Oh, gladly. I’ll leave all the contortionist shit to you, too. If you ever find me with my leg behind my head, you’ll know it’s the end of the world.”

In their building, Suki’s waiting at her door for them. Azula must already be inside. “Sorry to rush this, but I wanted to say good night and you guys are so slow, and, again: hungry, procrastinator, lab, midnight deadline. So, good night! Good practice, Zuko!” She tweaks Zuko’s cheek, then shuts herself into her apartment.

Having several times _been_ the procrastinator who’s put Suki at her wits’ end, Sokka has seen this before. For once, he doesn’t have to feel guilty. “Come on.” He tugs on Zuko’s arm.

Aang’s blasting Frank Ocean behind his closed door. Sokka lets Zuko go free, makes a beeline for his computer, clicking it awake. He’s been dutifully ignoring Slack all day, and unsurprisingly, the little red notification badge reads _17_. He slumps into his chair, cheek propped in his hand. “I need a shower, too, but you can go first, if you want. There’s at least one clean towel in my closet. Should be the green one,” he rattles off, eyes glued to the screen. “But if it smells funky, just steal one from Aang. He has, like, eight of those weird ones that are super absorbent and look like blankets that I think are meant for, like, camping. Speaking of Aang, he was at the gym with me today, so in case he hasn’t showered yet, you probably wanna get in soon, because he likes ‘em _long_.”

Zuko says nothing. Holding his breath, Sokka clicks open what looks to be a thread from Yangchen. Then the weight of his chair tips back ever so slightly, and behind him, Zuko says, “Thanks for, uh… thanks for coming tonight.”

Sokka’s brows furrow, and he goes to compose a response to the professor as he mutters, “Yeah, sure thing. You were—I mean, I’ve already said this, but dude, you’re fucking good. Like, I _kinda_ get why you never dance at parties, ‘cos then when people see you like that it’s like _bam_ , but… still. Seriously, not to scare you, but that was kind of hot. Like, honestly. Stirring, breeches, et cetera… you know how it is. It was happening.”

He’s about to hit _Enter_ on his reply to Yangchen when Zuko’s fingers curl over the chair’s armrest and he leans in, hovers not even an inch from Sokka’s face, eclipsing his view of the screen. Their noses are a hair’s breadth from touching, and Sokka’s finger drifts away from the _Enter_ key. He flattens his hand on his desk to ground himself.

The corners of Zuko’s lips lift. “I said thank you.”

Sokka feels like his eyes are crossing. “And I said you’re welcome.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Really? Huh.” For a moment, Sokka breathes the air out from his lungs. Then he lifts his chin, gently presses his lips to Zuko’s. Zuko reciprocates sooner than Sokka expects, and, filled with a desperation to make it last, Sokka’s fingers find the back of his neck, and he fumbles to stand out of the rolling chair, because it’s just a recipe for disaster. Zuko’s hands curl over Sokka’s shoulders and he stumbles a step backward. Sokka steadies him with a hand to his hip, chuckling between them, and is thinking about how it’ll feel when he brushes his tongue over the seam of Zuko’s lips when Frank Ocean intensifies and Aang’s door squeaks open distantly. Sokka pulls back an inch, face pinching with regret, and whispers, “Fucking Aang.” He shoves his chair out of the way and surges into the living room.

And there Aang is indeed, still in his gym clothes with one foot inside the bathroom, when he spots Sokka looking at him so accusingly across their tiny apartment. He holds up his arms in surrender.

“Oh,” Aang says, and then, “Hi, Zuko!”

Sokka glances over his shoulder. Zuko stands not far away, smile faint, green towel over his arm.

“Yeah, what the fuck, I’ll go later,” Aang surrenders very quickly, waves them off and returns to his room.

Sokka holds a hand out to his side, palm facing the floor. “You might think we’re being dramatic, but he genuinely takes an hour in there. Just… languishing. Locks the door, too, so I can’t even pee if I need to.”

Zuko steps up beside him. “Okay,” he says, detached, like Sokka hadn’t gone and kissed him _again_ seconds earlier.

“And I know you sleep early,” Sokka says, shrugs one shoulder. “‘Cos you… get up early.”

“Okay,” Zuko says again, and this time his lips press together, curl imperceptibly like a little moon sliver.

Sokka scoffs, goes to pinch at Zuko’s side, but his reflexes are frighteningly fast. “I know, I’m an idiot. Just go.” And so they part ways, Sokka for the bedroom and Zuko, quietly laughing, for the bathroom.

Sokka charges for the shower the second Zuko steps over the threshold—he can’t let Aang wheedle his way in. And when he returns to his bedroom, shaking his hair dry, he half-expects Zuko to be asleep in bed. He might as well be asleep, though he’s on the floor, head pillowed on his crossed arms, legs and ass lined up against the wall in a straddle split. Sokka stops short and from his fingers slip his shirt and socks and shorts. He only realizes he’s dropped them when he hears them hit the floor. Then he coughs. Zuko lifts his head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sokka asks politely as he tosses his clothes into the hamper.

“Suki was in a hurry,” Zuko says, and he grunts as he pushes himself upright. Sokka’s a bit mesmerized, watching the way his toes turn to face the ceiling. He’s in black briefs, as always. “Didn’t get a chance to stretch after practice.”

“Mhm.” Sokka sits on the edge of his bed, thinks of what Mai had said. “Or you’re just showing off. Like a little rooster for his hens.”

Zuko sputters out a laugh, and as he tips his head, his bangs fall into his eyes. “That’s not showing off. I’d do something more exciting if I was showing off.”

“Riiight, right, says Mr. _Windmills Are Standard_.”

Zuko shakes his head, mutters, _“Rooster,”_ under his breath. He stands and bends to lay his palms flat against the floor.

Sokka, suddenly eager, scoots backward on the sheets, claps his hands thrice. “Okay, next, do a handstand!”

“Sokka…” Zuko says it against his knees.

“Please?”

Sokka already knows his puppy eyes are a sure win. Zuko confirms this when he looks up, sighs, then plants his hands down again. He kicks into a handstand with such ease it seems to defy gravity.

“Cool,” whispers Sokka. His eyes trace the contours in Zuko’s arms.

“Now I’m gonna show off.”

Sokka nods, bites the tip of his finger.

Zuko spreads his legs, again into that straddle split, just in the air. With control, he lowers his legs closer to the floor, his torso toward his elbows until he’s almost in a seated position. His feet don’t touch the floor once, and his arms, between the V of his legs, hold his weight without the slightest tremor. Then he thunks his ass onto the floor.

Sokka’s fingers curl into a fist at his chin. “God, you’re crazy.”

Zuko huffs. “Got a participation medal in gymnastics for that when I was ten.”

“You bendy folks.” Sokka shakes his head. Absently, he rubs at his stomach, tries to temper the twist of heat there. It burns from his core all the way to the tips of his ears, which must be pink. “Weird, astronomical standards. Bizarre. Crazy, all of you.”

Zuko sits on the bed. Inexplicably, Sokka _wants_. And he blushes, pinching mindlessly at his throat, and says, “Well, I haven’t got anything nearly as cool to demonstrate. Give me a few days and I could train an ML model to pick out your face from pictures and write a program to draw hearts around them, but…”

Zuko licks his lower lip. There’s a sweet sort of amusement in his eyes in the low light. “You don’t have to do that.”

Sokka half-smiles, watches Zuko slip under the sheets. Mechanically, Sokka reaches over the edge of the bed, shuts off his lamp and bathes them in darkness.

For a while, he lays on his back, contemplating the ceiling. For all he can see, it could be miles or an inch away. Zuko breathes on steadily beside him, and if Sokka didn’t simply _know_ he was within arm’s reach, he could be miles away, too.

Sokka snaps the waistband of his boxers against his stomach.

Most often, feeling things is simple. Feel, then act. It’s how Sokka makes the majority of his life decisions, both trivial and consequential. Why feeling anything at all is suddenly so complicated, like someone’s laid a labyrinth between his heart and his mind, is beyond him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)


	7. 07 - wuthering heights

_Wednesday 10:02am_

**Sokka**

You need to start being louder when you leave man I could sleep (and have slept) through a magnitude 7 earthquake

And I feel weirdly forlorn whenever I wake up alone but know you were there

</3

_2:49pm_

**Sokka**

Ok good talk snookums 😘

The REAL reason I texted was to let you know that you can still sleep over tomorrow night after practice but Aang and I have a midterm to proctor 8-10pm and some admin shit to do after so just let yourself in if we’re not home

Door should be broken enough but if you can’t get it just ask Toph next door

They break in every fucking time

Without fail.

“You think Zuko’s mad at me?”

Sokka and Aang schlep together down the slope of the campus at dusk. They each clutch a heavy cardboard box, their insides piled thick with twenty-page midterm packets for the poor souls who are, on that evening, unlucky enough to be CS 166 students.

Aang frowns. His _Get in Loser, We’re Going Vegan_ tee is barely visible until they pass under a streetlamp, but the obnoxiously highlighter-yellow, backwards baseball cap on his head is almost unavoidable in Sokka’s periphery. “Why would you say that?”

Sokka shrugs, shifts the weight of his box of midterms. “Dunno. He’s not texting me back.”

Aang chuckles. “I call him all the time when I’m bored and he never picks up, and he didn’t seem mad at me during class today, so!” He shrugs. “Infer from that what you will.”

Sokka scoffs. When Aang is well-meaning, which is all the time, it’s pretty damn difficult to stay mad at him. “That’s not helpful.”

“Well, did you do anything to piss him off?”

Sokka thinks about Tuesday night. It gives rise to a foggy, warm feeling in his chest, tingling and slightly dizzying. He was an idiot, naturally, possibly owing to that fuzzy feeling, but he can’t think of anything particularly anger-worthy. “No.”

“There you go.”

Sokka pouts. He stumbles over a crack in the crumbling walkway. Curtains of willow leaves and stretching tree branches form black silhouettes against the gray, fading sky that’s slowly losing its light. “I think I like him.” He only realizes he’s said it aloud when Aang bumps his box against Sokka’s. He’s giving Sokka a funny look, too, something between fondness and confusion.

“Lucky you, ‘cos… you’re, like, dating him,” Aang says matter-of-factly, brows arched. “Or is this, like—you saying _Aang, I think I_ liiike _him_. Like—”

 _“No,”_ Sokka says, and he swivels on the ball of his foot to nudge open the door to Ba Sing Se Hall with his back. “This is not a _love confession_. I don’t know why I said that. We’ve been dating for—what?” He blinks in a flurry, stands against the door to let Aang past.

Aang chokes out a laugh. “You don’t know?”

Sokka’s eyes go out of focus. Academically, it’s… week seven of the semester. “Six weeks,” he mutters. “We’ve been dating six weeks. Whatever you’re thinking right now, I’m not _in love.”_

“There’s no time minimum for falling in love, Sokka!” Aang protests, and he repays Sokka the favor by holding open the door to the lecture hall that’ll be filling with over a hundred students in about ten minutes. “It took exactly one date with Suki for you to start planning your wedding.”

Sokka suddenly laments that he’s so transparent in times of lovesick hysteria. He follows Aang down the aisle between the rows of seats, scowling. “I have since decided that a night wedding under Canadian aurora borealis might be a touch _overblown_.”

“And,” Aang plows on, plopping his exam box on the desk at the front of the room and folding his arms over it. His eyes grow dreamy, and Sokka knows what’s coming. “It was love at first sight, Sokka—”

“Not this.”

“—when your sister walked through our door at Chi Phi on that fateful move-in day—to this day, I’ve _still_ never seen her as disapproving as whenever she set foot inside the frat—and fixed the towel bar you’d already broken, and trash-talked the lava lamp you impulse-bought at that garage sale, and mentioned going to check out the Lawyers Without Borders booth at the student org fair, it was…” He sighs. “It was love. I knew it. I knew it and I felt it. It was like… like when someone’s reading your tarot, and asks you to pick a card, and you just _know_ , you get that sensation when you touch that first card. You _know_. I knew.”

Sokka’s hooking up his laptop to the projector. Its light flashes on mid-Aang’s final word, and Aang has to lift his hand to shield his eyes.

“As beautiful and overdramatic as that was,” mutters Sokka, and he clicks open a timer set to two hours, peers over his shoulder at the big screen, “A, I was there, I remember how hard you stared and how creeped out she was. And B, your amorous pep-talk is useless, dude. We’re in pretty damn different circumstances, considering you and Katara are both stupid about each other but won’t do shit about it, and _I’m not in love with Zuko.”_

The door to the lecture hall creaks open. Neither of them move but to glance toward the student, who takes a seat in the backmost row.

“Sure,” Aang says, but he narrows his eyes at Sokka, which can only mean _I’ll bring it up again, probably when you’re fucked up_. “Congrats on six weeks, by the way. Hey, did you do anything for your one-month? Do… do people still care about that?”

Sokka snorts. He has a feeling their “one-month anniversary” whizzed by when Zuko was throwing himself into Spirit and valiantly ignoring Sokka. A few more students file into the room, and Sokka waves at them, calling out, “Every other seat! Sit every other seat, please!”

There’s forty minutes left on the exam when Sokka’s phone buzzes in his hand.

Aang leans over to whisper in his ear, “Fourth row, seventh from the left. Looked at their right neighbor’s paper _at least_ three times.”

Sokka makes a note of it, but his eyes flash to the notification that rolls into view at the top of his screen.

_Thursday 9:21pm_

**zuko**

where

Sokka squints at the tiny text, then nudges Aang. “Go walk around and look threatening,” he says under his breath.

“Okay!” Aang is jolly as he hops around the desk, strolls up and down the aisle, looking less intimidating and more like a genuinely happy-to-be-there amusement park worker. Sokka huffs a laugh, fixes his eyes on his phone again.

**Sokka**

Where what

**zuko**

where is the midterm

**Sokka**

255 Ba Sing Se

Why

Three minutes pass. No sign of the three-dot typing bubble.

**Sokka**

Zukooo……

Aang returns. “My dude at x equals seven, y equals four is really milking that angle.”

“I know his name, I wrote it down,” mumbles Sokka. He rubs a hand over his face, yawns.

“Don’t do that,” Aang scolds quietly. “No yawning. They’re the ones taking a hellfire exam. Yangchen must’ve been in some mood, man. That last problem?” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”

Sokka grimaces. “I wrote that.”

Aang scoffs, a faint quirk to his lips. “Tenure has hardened you, boss. I mean—cutie.”

_9:28pm_

**zuko**

i’m outside the door

Sokka presses his fist to his mouth. His eyes scan the room. Then, “Take the lead, Aang. I need to go take a dump.”

Aang’s nose scrunches up, but he mutters, “Oh, great. See you when the test is over, I guess.”

“Shut up.”

Sokka jogs up the aisle toward the doors. “Half an hour remaining!” he calls out, then slips from the lecture hall.

Sokka eases the door shut behind him, else its slam will echo throughout the hall. Standing a few feet away, holding up the wall from the looks of it, is Zuko, who pushes away at the sight of Sokka.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I _said_ I wanted to hang out with you, I did say that, but that didn’t mean you had to come hang out at the _midterm_ ,” Sokka states, hands in his pockets, as he steps toward Zuko. His lips are tilted in a smirk.

Zuko rubs his hand over his opposite elbow, looking meek. “We ended practice early. I didn’t want to be at your place if neither of you were there.”

“Hm.” Sokka breathes out a chuckle. “You have friends, not to mention a _sibling_ , next door. You could just wait there.”

Zuko looks at the floor. Sokka wants to hug him. “Well, I’m here now, so. I’ll just sit out here and wait.”

“No,” Sokka says before he can stop himself—which is a funny thought, because he probably wouldn’t. “No, no.” He traipses to Zuko, takes the fingers hanging lank at his side. “Come inside. There’s a half hour left. Just act like you’re supposed to be there. And be quiet.” He gives Zuko’s fingers a squeeze, and he takes him in, black jogger pants and zip-up hoodie and all. Then he cups his one cheek, kisses the other. Zuko seems startled, but Sokka evades his eyes and says, “Come on.”

As they stroll back down the aisle of 255 Ba Sing Se, Aang is blissfully unaware until the moment he isn’t, but even then, his eyes only bug out for a split second. Sokka points vaguely at the chair beside his laptop, where Zuko obediently takes a seat. Sokka slides back up to the big desk, just in time for a student to stride up and hand in their exam early. Aang sidles up to Sokka, reaches across him to accept the exam. He nods and smiles at the student, then his head jerks expectantly toward Sokka, very, very close. “Why’s Zuko here?” he murmurs and his lips barely move.

Sokka snatches the exam from Aang and tucks it neatly in a box. He shrugs, then smiles, self-satisfied, as he leans his hip against the desk. “I don’t think he’s mad at me,” he whispers. Aang arches an eyebrow, but sweeps off to go squat by Zuko and greet him in a whisper.

It’s impossible for Sokka to stand behind the desk and watch Zuko without craning his head ninety degrees, so he goes to stand at its side, where it’s slightly more awkward to survey the students but far easier to glance up at Zuko.

The first time they lock eyes is when Aang stands, claps Zuko on the shoulder, and goes to collect another departing student’s test. Zuko blinks, inscrutable as always, then pulls out his phone.

**zuko**

i’ve never taken a cs midterm before

it reeks in here

sadness and body odor

Sokka rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he pinches his bottom lip and lets it go.

**zuko**

student incoming at 8 oclock

Sokka’s head snaps over his shoulder, and he smiles warmly at the girl he recognizes from his discussion as she hands him her test. Facedown on the table, his phone buzzes again.

**zuko**

watch out i think she’s into you

**Sokka**

Hey

I am an upstanding educator!

I respect my students

**zuko**

just saying

there’s always someone hot for teacher

**Sokka**

You should know you’re disrupting my proctoring flow

**zuko**

but you asked me to come in

and all ur doing is standing there

**Sokka**

Would you leave a puppy out in the rain?

I get paid to stand here!

**zuko**

it’s not raining

do u rly?

**Sokka**

No I get paid for 20 hours a week and I’m already on my 24th

**zuko**

it’s only thursday…

A notification from Aang pops up at the top of the screen.

🚨🚨🚨 **A A N G** 🚨🚨🚨

Is this what third wheeling feels like :’’’’(

It only takes scrolling up a bit in their conversation to see it’s the first time Aang has texted Sokka since April of that year. “Fifteen minutes remaining,” Sokka tells the room, stifling a laugh. The announcement triggers sounds of panicked pencil scribbling and erasing.

By seven minutes past the hour, the lecture hall is empty and the midterms are packed into boxes again. The irony of Aang’s earlier message strikes Sokka as the three of them—Sokka, Aang, and Zuko—march up the hill to the computer science building to drop off the exams, and yet again, Sokka’s on the fringe of their conversation; Aang had already given him the full scoop on his sunrise yoga teacher on their way to the midterm. At their destination, they converge with the other TAs, also with bulky boxes in hand, but Sokka’s not on duty to supervise the scanner as it eats all five hundred exams that night, so he joyfully throws his arm around Zuko’s shoulders and bids them all goodbye— _“Bye, bitches!”_ —as he backs them out of the printer room.

Nearing the edge of campus, Sokka slowly drops his hold on Zuko. “We always do this.”

In the corner of Sokka’s field of vision, Zuko’s chin turns toward him a microscopic amount. “What?”

 _“This.”_ Sokka swats at the night sky. “Go home, go to bed.” He frowns in thought. “You know, we’ve probably spent four times longer _sleeping_ together than we have in waking hours. Sleeping, as in—I’ve been unconscious in your presence more often than not!”

Zuko snorts. He looks down at his shoes, and his profile is a pale silhouette against the night sky and its dark clouds, heavy with promised rainfall. “We don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he murmurs. “There are girls in Spirit I could introduce you to… if you wanted.”

It takes everything in Sokka not to fall flat on his face as they step off a curb together. “Sorry, _what?”_

“We’re halfway through the semester.” Zuko shrugs. “I’m sure at least Suki thinks you’re over her. And Aang, obviously. He might actually miss this— _us_ —more than we might.” His mouth tugs upward, then straightens again into a thin line.

Sokka really stops, then, laying a hand to Zuko’s shoulder, who raises an eyebrow but swings his leg around to cut himself off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, are you fake-breaking-up with me?” Sokka deadpans.

Zuko’s lips part. He looks past Sokka’s shoulder. “Not really? I’m just saying, if you wanted to…”

“I… don’t.” Sokka blinks slowly. “Do _you?”_

Zuko has to think, apparently. But then he shrugs a shoulder, shakes his head, ambivalently negatory. _How definite_.

“Of course you don’t,” Sokka says, crooking a teasing finger under Zuko’s chin. He smirks, turns on his heel. And as he steps into motion again, a ponderous wave of worry rushes in and drains out of him, like he’s washed up on shore from cold water onto warmth sand. He only knows the true weight of that feeling now that it’s gone, now that he’s reassured of this twisted normality he’s grown so used to, and it should concern him. “You need me for my queen-size bed and proximity to campus.”

Zuko hums, noncommittal. “Your bed is pretty comfy. And your shower’s bigger than mine.”

Sokka pinches him in the side, grins at the very un-Zuko squeak it draws out of him. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean I was _tired_ of doing this. _This_ ,” he waves his hand again at the sky, “is fine. Practical, even, given our… agreement. I just mean…”

Zuko waits patiently as he gets a grasp on his words.

“We could hang out, like, _not_ at night. And _not_ at a midterm.” Sokka folds his arms over his chest, thinking. “The last time I saw you in broad daylight was outside your uncle’s shop, when you basically told me to fuck off for a few weeks. Do you sparkle in the sunshine or something?”

Zuko lifts his brow, hesitates. “What… Is that a figure of speech?”

He’s never seen Twilight. _He’s never seen Twilight._ Sokka sighs, runs his hand up Zuko’s arm until it reaches his shoulder, where he gives him a gentle squeeze that digs into his taut muscle. “Zuko… my sweet, sweet, sheltered Zuko.”

Zuko begs not for clarification. Instead, “So, you want to go on a date?” He clears his throat. “A… day date? A fake day date.” Again, he falters. “A… a fake date that’s anything other than a nighttime routine.”

Sokka gives an exaggerated shrug, releases Zuko from his hold. They stop at the crosswalk where the light is red. “Doesn’t even have to be a fake date. Like, we don’t even have to put up appearances, necessarily, if no one we know is there! Just, you know, _us_ … but I get it, you’re super busy, and you can only be in my presence for so long, so going straight to bed is an easy escape.” Sokka’s unsure if he’s cracking a joke or just telling it like it is, but when he looks at Zuko for a fleeting moment, he’s met with a grim countenance.

The crosswalk light switches to white. Zuko steps off the curb, turns his eyes ahead. “I don’t like it when you put words in my mouth.”

Sokka continues to watch him, eyes wide as a tentative smile blooms on his face. “Is that a yes?”

“To what?”

“Sokka-Zuko quality time!” Sokka screeches, like it should be obvious.

Zuko breathes out a laugh, then, that makes everything inside Sokka’s chest melt like chocolate over heat. “Yeah, sure.”

Sokka is far too pleased with himself, and he’s tempted to kiss Zuko just to commemorate this self-satisfaction, but instead he skips a few paces, veins full of energy despite having just stood in place for two hours watching people take an exam. “Great! Superb. What should we do?” he muses. His eyes wander over the storefront of a pizzeria they pass by. “Go bowling?”

“What? Fuck no.”

“Bowling is best if you have your own bowling shoes, which I’m assuming you do.”

“Of course,” Zuko mutters. His lifeless tone brings Sokka joy.

“Hey, I’m only being resourceful. This is a college town, and my wallet is empty. There’s only so much—oh, dude, karaoke!”

“No way.”

“Your husky tenor? Bonnie Tyler’s _Total Eclipse of the Heart_? A crossover I deserve.”

“I have a car. We don’t have to stay here.”

It’s like a record scratching as Sokka takes Zuko by the elbow and pulls him to a halt. “You,” he starts, and Zuko shoves Sokka closer to the curb when other pedestrians need to pass on the sidewalk, “have. A _car_.” Sokka’s brows scrunch, quickly followed by a rapid raise. “Why didn’t I know this? Do you… _go_ places? How do you not have a million people exploiting you for your car?”

“I don’t tell anyone.” He pries Sokka’s hand from his arm.

Sokka smiles, fond. “Because you’re a homebody.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, takes that very same hand of Sokka’s and tugs him along.

“But this opens up a world of opportunity,” Sokka gasps, stumbling along with Zuko’s guidance. “We could go to the redwood forest! Or go on a _winery tour_! Except that costs money I don’t have. We could go to the beach!” His volume picks up. “In the middle of October!” He turns a giddy smile on Zuko, who’s not nearly at his excitement level. “The _beach_! Come on! Don’t tell me you hate the beach. You’re from a beach town, you can’t hate the beach! It’s practically illegal!”

Zuko merely meets his eyes and mutters, “I just think you don’t need to decide everything we’re gonna do right this instant.” His lips purse. Sokka is suddenly aware they’re holding hands. “And no, I’m not the beach’s biggest fan.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe we’re going to the beach!” Ty Lee squeals, sticks her head out the window of Zuko’s Lexus as they cruise toward the bridge that crosses the bay.

“Seriously,” mutters Mai. She’s riding shotgun with Ty Lee in her lap. Obviously, Sokka had _called_ shotgun, but logistically, Ty Lee was the smallest and could most deftly tuck herself into Mai’s legroom should a cop car choose to whiz past. And Sokka only knew Mai and Ty Lee so well—having Mai’s tiny girlfriend in his lap whilst Mai sat two feet away seemed less a bad idea than simply a weird one. “Only took us four years to convince Zuko to drive us somewhere fun.”

“You never asked,” Zuko protests, but doesn’t look away from the road, knuckles going white around the wheel. He’s not a poor driver, per se—habitually checks his blindspot and uses turning signals—but he’s tense, zones out on the speedometer so often trying to stay under the speed limit that he nearly misses a stop sign here and there. Sokka, sat directly behind him, actively tries to keep his mouth shut as not to be _that_ backseat driver.

“But I did, and I’m just chock full of great ideas!” he says brightly, but they ignore him.

“It was implied,” Mai says blankly to Zuko.

“You don’t even like swimming.” Zuko shoots her a look from the corner of his eye.

“I like breathing clean air.”

“Stop bickering!” Ty Lee shouts out the window. “Wow, look at that bird!”

“It’s just a seagull,” Mai says distastefully. Meanwhile, Aang knocks his head on the ceiling trying to get a look at it.

“Can you stop manspreading?” Katara gives Aang a gentle slap to the knee. She and Suki are wedged between him and Sokka, sharing the middle seatbelt.

“My knees literally don’t fit,” Aang murmurs apologetically. Mai’s seat is pushed as far back as it can go to give Ty Lee room to hunker down in case of legal emergency, crushing Aang into the tiny space behind.

“Should’ve gone with the trunk,” says Toph, from the trunk. “Veeery roomy.”

“In that case,” Aang unbuckles his seatbelt, peers into the back with a grin, “mind if I join you?”

Azula, also in the trunk with her legs stretched out parallel to Toph’s, reacts with reflexes like lightning—before Aang can even jokingly poke his head over the seats, she has the point of her finger dug into the middle of his forehead. “Not so fast, baldy. Stay in your lane.” It makes Toph cackle with delight.

“You know who else should stay in his lane? Zuko,” Mai pipes up. “That was the worst merge I’ve ever seen. You totally cut that old dude off.”

“It’s okay. He had an anti-abortion bumper sticker,” Suki says. Sokka’s sat so far forward on the edge of his seat that should Suki want to see out the window, she only need lean behind his back.

Toph laughs again, spouts, “Is he still behind us? I’ll give him the finger!” but Zuko groans, sounding genuinely incensed.

“I can’t concentrate when you’re all yelling over—what is this? _Kanye?_ Who’s playlist is this?”

“Oh, sorry, that’s mine.” Aang leans over, grabs his phone from the center console.

“Oh, wait, please!” Ty Lee bounces back inside the car, dutifully shuts the window. Mai makes a sound like _oof_ when she settles on her lap. “Play Mamamoo, Aang, please! _Please_!”

Aang blinks, startled by her request. Then smiles and nods slowly. “I have no idea what you just said, but okay!” He puts on Donna Summer instead.

Sokka leans his chin on the backrest of Zuko’s seat. After a while of staring at a freckle on the back of Zuko’s neck, he eases his arms around the seat, presses his fingers into the hardened muscles in Zuko’s shoulders. “Someone needs a hot bath,” comments Sokka.

Zuko sighs, deep and throaty, and checks the rearview mirror. “Good thing we’re on our way to the freezing Pacific Ocean.”

Sokka bites down on a smile, pinches Zuko’s cheek between his knuckles and wiggles the soft skin. “There’s my ever-burning ball of sunshine!”

“Stop distracting him,” Mai says without conviction. Her smile is wry when Sokka glances over. “He’ll drive us right off the bridge.”

Sokka gazes out the windshield at the oncoming San Rafael Bay, the early-morning light blue sky. He kneads his fingers into Zuko’s shoulders, and as Aang’s playlist transitions between songs, there’s an ephemeral, soft lull that falls over the packed car. And he feels good. “It’s kind of sexy when you drive,” Sokka says offhandedly. He brushes his fingers seemingly unintentionally over Zuko’s neck, feels it timidly flush with heat.

“Really? He couldn’t get any closer to the wheel,” chuckles Mai. “And you couldn’t even pay him to drive with one hand.”

“Are we taking a break from Bully Sokka Day to bully Zuko?” Toph asks, and Sokka groans, flattening his face into the back of Zuko’s headrest.

Toph’s question does nothing for Zuko’s rigid posture. “Feel free to bully me when I don’t have nine people in my five-seater car.”

“It is a very nice car,” Katara hums at the same time Suki puts in, “Don’t worry, Zuko. When you’re rich, the law is only a suggestion!”

Zuko snorts, but Azula says, “If I called our father and told him Zuzu got charged on four counts of flouting the California Seatbelt Law because he had _too many friends_ to drive around, he _literally_ wouldn’t believe me.”

“No one asked you, Azula!” Zuko rasps.

“I’m just saying. I never thought I’d see the day you instigated a road trip with a bunch of pals and invited _me_ along for the ride.”

“It’s an hour away, it’s not a road trip,” huffs Zuko, adjusting his fingers on the wheel. “And I didn’t invite you. Somehow you’re lucky enough to have acquaintances who allegedly enjoy your presence.”

Sokka bites the tip of his tongue. He knows the whole truth, which is that Zuko didn’t invite _anybody_ but Sokka, and that it was Sokka who’d let it slip to Aang that they had plans to head to Point Reyes that Saturday, and… the rest was history. Aang loves to commune with nature, loves to do so with anyone available, including their next door neighbors. And there were no take-backs, not in Sokka’s book, once Aang invited himself along.

 _“Acquaintances?”_ Azula chokes through a laugh, and then Mai’s voice cuts sharply through the car.

“Hey! You’re as far apart as you can possibly be with both your asses still in the car. Keep at that and I’ll throw one of you out.” She sinks down in her seat, wraps her arms around Ty Lee. “Or both.”

Sokka decides to forgo mentioning the fact that not five minutes ago, Mai and Zuko were also quarreling like siblings. Instead, he again finds that freckle on Zuko’s neck, brushes his thumb over it. Zuko’s shoulder flinches up toward his ear at the gentle touch, and Sokka lays his mouth against his own shoulder, smiles into it.

Aang lowers his window, then, and as they zoom onto the bridge, the air in the car begins to throb painfully.

Ty Lee clamps her hands over her ears and cries out in distress, “ _Helmholtz resonance!_ Make it stop!”

“Uh,” says Aang as he dangles his arm out the window, “in that case, I’d recommend we open all the other windows, too.”

“Did you fart?” Katara looks murderous. “You did, didn’t you?”

Aang’s expression twists through a number of unnameable emotions. “I didn’t… _not?”_

Mai is the first to open hers. “I hate this,” she declares.

“Pretty,” whispers Ty Lee as the branches of the trees on both sides of the road meet in the middle to form a brambly canopy above them. The trees fade to dry, grassy plains that get drier and yellower the further they go. At the parking lot of the trailhead, Katara announces that she’s brought along a reusable water bottle for everyone there, that they _have_ to stay hydrated, and insists that Aang carry the backpack with more of them inside. She shoulders the other herself.

“This is like carrying a toddler!” Aang complains, but still buckles the straps of the backpack over his chest like a dork.

Sokka goes to take the other bag from Katara, but she turns him away. “Who owns _nine_ reusable water bottles?” he hears Mai mutter to Zuko, and when Zuko only shrugs, she decides, “I like her style.”

It’s not a cold day but the wind off the ocean whips around them all, making Ty Lee’s braid dance as she skips toward the trailhead. Katara sets her hands on her hips, goes to examine the nearest map, then hollers out, “Does anyone have to use the bathroom before we go?” but half their party has already headed down the trail.

“A valiant effort, sororal unit,” Sokka tells her. Katara gives him a light kick to the back of the knee and he almost buckles to the ground.

They trudge toward the bluff along a shallow uphill. There’s thick, white cloud coverage overhead, the water beyond the cliff’s edge is a greenish-gray, and the swirling air blows pleasantly underneath Sokka’s hoodie. It’s nice to breathe air, Sokka thinks, that doesn’t smell like a stuffy lecture hall or the smoke of frying tofu but has the crisp bite of saltwater.

He doesn’t even realize he’d been in solitude—Ty Lee’s stride is brisk and she leads the pack with Zuko and Mai on her heels, Katara and Aang have jogged up to the middle to supply water to the front and caboose, and Toph and Azula are taking it easy behind him—until Suki pops up at his side. “Hello,” she says, taking his elbow. “You’re quiet.”

Sokka frowns in thought. “Maybe everything else is just loud.”

Together, they listen to the distant hum of the ocean. The wind carries all conversation east, so from where Sokka and Suki are, Aang’s prattling up ahead is but a faint murmur. Suki arches an eyebrow at him, cocks her head in that sweet way of hers. “Are you okay?”

Sokka blanches. “Do I look… _sad_?”

Suki snickers. “No, not at all.” There’s a jaunty hop in her step that jostles Sokka every few paces, as they’re still linked at the arm.

Sokka gives her a very obvious, suspicious, cursory once-over. “You’re being weird.”

“Oh, no, Sokka. I am not the one being weird.” Before Sokka can even ask what that might imply, she suggests, “Wanna talk about Gödel’s incompleteness theorems?”

Sokka’s brows scrunch deeply. Further down the trail, an unusually hefty gust of wind tousles Zuko’s hair. When the wind calms, it falls back into its artful place, seemingly untouched. “Not particularly. Work-life balance, and all.”

“Literally _who_ are you to bring up work-life balance?”

Sokka’s nose crinkles up. “Fine. Computability-and-complexity-life balance. When I don’t need to think about that class, I won’t.”

“Well, I have thoughts, so you have no choice but to be my receptacle. If you don’t have any valuable contributions to make, you can at least act like you’re listening, even if you’re just staring at Zuko’s ass.”

“Oh, thanks,” he says drily. Then, “Hold up, what?”

It’s forty minutes or so to the end of the trail. On both sides, the grass is olive green, and it tapers off to cliff-sides frothing with the water of the ocean and the bay. The wind flaps and tugs at all their clothes; Aang jokingly tumbles off the path and toward the scarp, as if the wind might pick him up—two-hundred pounds of man with seven pounds of water bottles strapped to his back—like a kite. Suki pulls the hood of her Spirit-branded sweatshirt over her head, pulls on the drawstrings until only her features are in view, and knots them in a bow. Ty Lee beckons Azula to the overlook to take a picture of her and Mai with the ocean view behind. Sokka drifts from Suki’s side when he spots Zuko alone, seated on the matted grass.

“The narrator knew perfectly well his pretend significant other hated the ocean and anything to do with it. Nevertheless, he took his pretend significant other to the ocean,” Sokka recites, easing himself down onto the chilly ground next to Zuko, “and feigned surprise when his significant other proceeded to brood.” He touches his fingertips to his cheeks, lips forming an O. “Wow!”

Zuko snorts. The dramatic flair brings a half-smile to his face, which is all Sokka wanted. “I’m—”

“You’re not brooding.”

“I’m not.”

Sokka says nothing, just smiles, amused, and plants his hands on the grass to lean his weight into them.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says out of the blue. It’s truly from the blue, as his words crack Sokka in the skull just as the horizon is blurring before his eyes, a faraway sliver of cloudless blue sky meeting the blue ocean.

“You’re sorry,” says Sokka, shifting off his palms and wiping them on his jeans. “For?”

“This isn’t what you meant, is it?” mutters Zuko, rubbing at his chin. “When you said you wanted to hang out… just us.” He looks over his shoulder, and Sokka follows his gaze. Suki, Azula, and Ty Lee are engaged in an elaborate cheerleading stunt as Mai stands behind the phone camera. Aang gets to play the role of the spotter, should Ty Lee come plunging down off Suki and Azula’s shoulders.

Sokka chuckles, bewildered. “ _You’re_ apologizing? Because they crashed our not-date?”

Zuko looks back down at his lap. His nod is feeble, but Sokka catches it.

“Zuko,” he sighs, and he wiggles nearer, gathers Zuko into his side by the shoulders. “If anything, it’s my fault we crammed seven extra people into your nice little Lexus. Once I told Aang, his enthusiasm could _not_ be contained, and he told everyone we knew within a hundred-foot radius, and…” Sokka shrugs. “Ohana, Zuko. Nobody gets left behind. And it’s totally on me that we picked the ocean to come to. That _I_ picked… the ocean.” He shrugs, fingers curling absently into Zuko’s shoulder. “If it’s miserable for you, blame me instead.”

“I’m not miserable.” Sokka glances at his profile, and whatever he’s expecting, it’s not that Zuko would be looking back at him, lips quirked into a subtle curve. “You should know by now that’s just my face.”

Sokka’s not expecting to laugh, either, so the noise that forces its way out of his throat is breathy and guttural.

Zuko examines Sokka’s face, fingers tangled in his lap. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.” And with that, the eye contact vanishes, and Zuko tears a few blades of grass from the ground by his ankles. “And I don’t think it worked.”

Sokka is so baffled at first that his silence might be the reason Zuko’s posture slumps only further. But it’s a lot, it’s a lot to take in, and perhaps he’s reading too deeply into Zuko’s words but Sokka doesn’t often see this side of Zuko. He can’t help it.

“Hey,” Sokka whispers, and it might get lost in the wind as he smiles a tad breathlessly. He nudges his forehead into Zuko’s temple, clenches his fingers tight on Zuko’s shoulder, possessive and urgent. “It worked, it worked.” He kisses the high of Zuko’s cheekbone, then draws back without letting him go. Zuko’s elusory eyes are hard to catch. “Thank you,” Sokka mumbles, earnest.

Zuko inhales, exhales, pins his gaze on the ocean. Then he twists toward Sokka, roots his palm on the grass behind Sokka’s hip, and kisses him on the mouth.

Sokka _mm_ s into it, feels his toes curl in his shoes when Zuko doesn’t draw back immediately. He seizes that moment, drags his hand from Zuko’s shoulder up his neck to cradle the back of his head, card through his windswept hair. Zuko’s lips are cold but they’re warming between the two of them, and when Sokka dares to suck at Zuko’s lower lip, he makes a strangled noise eaten up by the wind that makes Sokka’s blood feel thick and hot.

He lays his free hand on Zuko’s thigh, and half a second later, Zuko sweeps his fingers over it, digs blunt nails into the spaces between Sokka’s knuckles. They’re still kissing, deep and wet, and Sokka’s lips feel tender. The flush in his face almost stings against the whipping of the wind. His gut twists, then, because he always realizes he’d missed this when he goes so long without, and he feels at the inseam of Zuko’s jeans, _god_ —

“This is a public nature preserve!”

Their lips separate, a suction that’s audible and wet. Sokka doesn’t care to find the source of the disturbance, even if he already knows it’s Azula, not ten feet away from them on the grass. Instead, he keeps a firm hold on Zuko’s neck, feeling weirdly distanced from his own body as his eyes skate over Zuko’s shiny, red-bitten lips. Zuko licks them, turns his head, seemingly prepared to tell Azula to _beat it_ , but she gets in a chuckle first and twirls on her heel. “You’re gross. We’re taking a group picture.”

“Oh,” breathes Zuko, not loud enough for her to hear, and she’s already halfway to the overlook anyhow. Sokka clears his throat, which makes Zuko laugh, bashful, as they trundle to their feet. Zuko grabs Sokka’s hand, helps him up the rest of the way, and doesn’t let go. Doesn’t, until the knowing looks from their troupe of seven become too much. Sokka finds he revels in them, those looks, that he likes the burn of the blush in his face and neck. Suki sets up a self-timer, phone leaned against the bench, then gives the group one last glance before tapping the screen and sprinting up to squat at Sokka and Zuko’s feet. On Zuko’s other side, Mai snorts.

“You two could at least try to look like you weren’t just pulling a _Cathy and Heathcliff on the untamed moors_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've made it this far you're doubtless, 1000% going to want to take a look at [this](https://dickpuncherdraws.tumblr.com/post/642711460103995392/hey-sokka-whispers-and-it-might-get-lost-in) beautiful magnificent dickpuncher original of the point reyes scene. actually no, you have to look at it. no, i'll never be ok about it.
> 
> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)


	8. 08 - automatic stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a warning that a good chunk of this chapter may be a bit, erm, _cringe_ , but I felt I owed it to said scene to include it because it on its own sparked the ideation of the whole rest of this fic 😂 AS ALWAYS thank you SO much for your continued support on this story, I cherish every kudo and comment more than you could possibly know ♥ posting may slow down to weekly-ish in the near future as I’m currently writer’s-blocked on ch11 bahah, thanks for bearing with ♥

Just past nine on a Wednesday night, Aang raps his knuckles on Sokka’s door.

He doesn’t hear, of course, so they run the steps of their typical routine: Aang knocks a second time, calls Sokka’s name, waits a beat, then barges in, hand cautiously covering his eyes until he sees Sokka’s merely at his desk with his face too close to the computer monitor and his lip pinched between his fingers in concentration.

Aang tugs at one side of Sokka’s headphones, lets it snap back into place. That, at least, gets Sokka’s attention.

“You have a guest,” says Aang, when Sokka whirls in his chair to face him.

Sokka squints. “A guest?”

Aang traipses to the door, opens it a tad wider, so Sokka can see who stands just beyond it—Azula, wrapped in long, red silk pajamas and a matching silk robe, laptop in hand. Sokka’s left eyebrow twitches.

“Are you sure my guest doesn’t have the wrong apartment?” he says vacantly.

Aang blinks, like he hadn’t considered that. Turning to Azula, he says, “ _Do_ you—?”

“No!” Azula bites, then storms through the door, though her steps are slipper-footed and silent. “I told you, I need to talk to Sokka.” She looks Aang up and down, expectant and clutching her sleek laptop to her chest, until he trudges out, arms raised in surrender, and shuts the door behind him.

Sokka suddenly feels unease in his own room. But Azula gets down to business swiftly, marching to his desk and setting her laptop down, screen toward him. “I thought an introductory programming class could… _bear fruit_ … at some point in my future,” she explains, not meeting his eyes. “But… just—look. I’m not doing as well as I’d hoped, and this project is due on Friday and I’m getting errors everywhere and I can’t go to office hours because I simply don’t have the _time_ to sit and wait three hours with a bunch of sweaty freshmen for someone to pick my name off the infinitely-long help queue and give me some vague, useless hint that’ll just force me back onto the end of the three-hour queue. I need… _help_.” She frowns, lips pursed, hardly even winded from her tirade. “From you.”

Sokka studies her, fingers laced over his lap. “I see,” he says contemplatively. “You’re saying you require my… _expertise_.”

Azula rolls her eyes, but still doesn’t look at him. Looks, perhaps, at the expired calendar of kitten pictures, balancing on several pushpins haphazardly stabbed into the wall. “Yes.” Her eyes dart to him, and then she leans over her laptop, punches in her password to unlock the screen. She grits out, “Please, Sokka, just—”

Sokka laughs. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Is it CS 100? I love that class. Taught it one semester a couple years ago.” He cracks his knuckles, reaches for Azula’s laptop. “May I?” When she nods, he snatches it up, goes to sit on the edge of his bed with it perched on his knees.

Azula idles by his desk, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Sokka lifts his brows and pats the space beside him.

“Don’t you have another chair?” She shifts on her feet, casts a wary glance over Sokka’s rumpled bedsheets. “I’d rather sit here.” She taps her long nails against the laminate surface of the desk.

Sokka stills, cradling Azula’s laptop, then frowns thoughtfully. “Well, we do have an… exercise ball…”

“An exercise ball.” Her fingertips press to her temple, nostrils flared.

Sokka snorts. “Look, Azula, not everyone has moving trucks to bring their velvet-upholstered furniture from Monterey to their shitty college apartment.”

“I just don’t want to sit where you and my _brother_ do stuff! For— _fornicate_!” she yelps, and there’s a _bang_ as she steps backward and bumps into Sokka’s desk, dubiously stable, and makes his monitors rattle. Sokka falls silent, but only for a beat. He can’t help but let out a sheepish laugh, rub the side of his neck.

“We—we don’t.” He looks back at the bed, then lifts his eyes to Azula. “We don’t.”

Without her pointy eyeliner, she’s only moderately intimidating as she stares into Sokka’s face, like she’s reading his mind. “For some reason, I believe you.” She gingerly sits on the bed, crosses her legs and smooths out her pajama bottoms. “I always thought you had virgin energy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but—”

“I’m not a virgin!” Sokka squawks, probably loud enough for the passersby on the street to hear.

“Yeah, okay, save it.” Azula holds up her palm an inch from his face. “And help me with my project.”

Sokka harrumphs. “Fine.” He places her laptop on her lap, which seems to surprise Azula. She holds it like she’s handling anything but a laptop—perhaps a fragile vase—as if she suddenly doesn’t know how, and narrows her eyes.

“First rule of teaching computer science—never touch the student’s keyboard,” Sokka informs, a smirk tilting his lips. “Unless they’ve incontrovertibly messed up their Git repository, which happens. Git is a bitch.” When a thin line forms between Azula’s brows, he chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Yet. Okay, let’s have a look.”

She sighs, a brusque stream of hot air out her nose, pulls up her code editor, and tilts the laptop toward Sokka.

Perhaps thirty seconds elapse, and then Azula demands, “Well?”

Sokka blinks. He’s not read a single character. “Well what?”

“Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

Sokka chuckles good-naturedly. “Oh, no. No, no, that’s not how it works around here. First, you—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you _really_ going all _teacher mode_ on me?” she gripes.

Sokka ignores the question. “First, you need to tell me what the project is, then walk me through the part you think is causing you trouble, and explain to me why you wrote every line of code that you did.”

Azula’s eyes are cold. Sokka’s shocked they haven’t turned him to stone yet. “That’s going to take—!”

“Do you want my help or not?”

She takes a few seconds to decide, jaw working. Finally, she concedes and starts talking.

It’s ten minutes later that Sokka’s gained a firm footing on Azula’s project. He points his finger at a block of code. “So there’s your for-loop logic, yes?”

“Yes, I already said that,” Azula mutters, testy.

“So… you want to add _that_ number to your running sum. _Every_ time. Right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So every time that for-loop runs, will that line run, too?”

“Sokka!” she bursts out. “I don’t know how many times we can go over this! _Yes_ , that’s what it does! It runs in every loop, that’s why I put it there, inside the for-loop!”

She’s staring daggers through Sokka’s pupils. “Maybe… look at your screen,” he says placatingly, “instead of me.”

He has a feeling she’s on the verge of strangling him. She must change her mind, because she whips her head to face front. The end of her ponytail is almost abrasive as it grazes his cheek. She takes a breath, and then: “Oh.”

Sokka smiles, faint.

“It was… the indentation,” Azula says, quiet. She bounces on the mattress, now eye-to-eye with Sokka, and raises her voice. “All that time, and it was the fucking _indentation_? Did you know this whole time? Why didn’t you just tell me?!”

Sokka recedes like a turtle into a shell, lifts his hands like a shield between himself and Azula. “Python is picky about that. You have to learn to have an eye for minutiae, so that when you think you have a bug in your code, you _actually_ have a bug in your code, and it’s not just because you forgot to press _tab_ once.” He says it all rapidly, in one breath, like he has to get all in before the ticking time-bomb that is Azula explodes.

She glowers and slams her laptop shut. “Great. _Just_ great.”

“The rest of your code looked good, though. Should work like a charm,” Sokka says lightly, and on the edge of the mattress, discreetly shifts an inch away.

“Fucking indentation,” Azula mutters under her breath, then stands, hugging her laptop to her chest. She goes for the door, but stops mid-step, her back to Sokka. Wednesday nights are quiet on Walnut Street, so he just barely hears it when she mumbles, “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and when it comes out an airy croak, he coughs. He waves a hand at her rigid-set back. “Anytime, dude, anytime.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Sorry!” Sokka sits up fast, presses his palms together in apology, maybe prayer. “Sorry.”

Azula goes nowhere, moves not an inch, like she’s about to shoot laser beams from her eyes and carve out a convenient, Azula-shaped exit in Sokka’s door. He almost wishes she would just get on with it, with her laser light show, so he could fully fill his lungs for the first time since she arrived.

Then Azula turns soundlessly, hooks her gaze into him, countenance stony. “You do know why I was so harsh on you last summer, right?”

Sokka scratches at his jaw, sucker-punched by the shift in topic. “Uh.” He tilts his head from side to side and cracks the joints in his neck. It makes Azula’s eye twitch, or perhaps that’s unrelated. “Because you’re a harsh person?”

“No,” she answers scathingly, and too quickly, at that. “Well—mostly, it’s because I had high expectations of you.” Her eyes drift past him and her chin lifts with huffy pride, but it doesn’t feel as if she’s looking at anything in particular. “You gave me reason to have high expectations. And I wanted to be the best. I wanted our project to get glowing reviews from our managers. And it did.” Her fingers ball up into a fist where they rest against the chrome surface of her laptop. “I noticed that you perform well under pressure, and as the project manager, I saw it fitting to seize the opportunity, and… put pressure on you.”

Sokka doesn’t know where this is going. “Project management _intern_ ,” he corrects, but Azula doesn’t seem to hear.

“So… yes, I’m willing to admit my expectations were rather high from the very start. There’s a chance they were _too_ high, but still, you exceeded them. So I kept raising them accordingly. Anyway—I now see that whatever you were doing to make our app work was much harder than I thought it was.” She taps her slippered foot against the floor thrice, curls and uncurls her fingers. “Seeing as… I can’t even program a checkerboard game in an introductory class where a thousand other students are all apparently smarter than me.”

If there was a compliment in there, it slipped through Sokka’s fingers like trickling sand. “They’re not.” He rests his elbows on his knees, smile faint. “ _Smarter_ than you, I mean. Office hours wouldn’t be so packed if no one else was confused. And we’re in the Bay Area, you already know that there are people here who started coding in, like, their fucking cribs. It’s okay. They’re smug now, but they’ll get their asses handed to them when they take CS 166.” For just a second, his smile glows with joviality.

Azula doesn’t take well to the sympathy. “I’m gonna go now,” she announces, and grabs for Sokka’s doorknob.

“Wait,” he blurts, arm craned out uselessly—there’s at least five feet between them now—“was that… were you _apologizing_? For last summer?”

Azula frowns at him, fingers slipping from the doorknob. “No?”

Sokka’s hand flops to his lap. “Oh.”

“I just.” She pauses. “I just know I can be intense, and that because of it, we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“The wrong foot,” Sokka echoes, airy, thoughtful. He can’t envision an alternate universe in which there is ever a correct foot between the two of them.

“It wouldn’t have mattered so much, even with me living next door, but now you’re dating my brother,” she says, measured. “And from where I’m standing, at least, you’re not showing signs of going away any time soon.”

“I sound like a bad zit.”

Azula presses gentle fingers to her temple, but Sokka thinks there’s something of a smile in the tilt of her mouth. “Unfortunately for both of us, I’m also not showing any signs of becoming _not_ Zuko’s sister. _So_ , I… I would like for us to be civil.”

“I’ve never not been civil with you!”

“You can barely look me in the eye,” she counters.

Sokka rolls his eyes, then makes a point of holding eye contact as he says, “But I’ve never been _mean_.”

“No. You haven’t.” Azula’s lips purse. “Whatever conversation we’re now having is pointless. The essence of the matter is: if the image of me in your head is still the one from last summer, get it out. That was a working relationship. And we are now… verging on familial.”

 _Familial_ nearly makes Sokka’s eyes bulge from his head. “Okay, chill,” he says, leaning back on the bed with an easy smile. “As much as I’m down to be nice to each other, I don’t have plans to _marry_ Zuko. We’ve been—it’s been two months. A little over.”

Azula hums. “Well, sure, you say that now. But I’ve always thought Zuko would end up with the first person he finally dates. That’s why when I was younger, I always hoped he’d date Mai.” One of her eyebrows arches in the shape of a C. “Little did I know.”

Sokka snorts, then tries to pitch his tone as _kind_. “No doubt you know Zuko better than me, but…” He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe just… let things happen, and stop predicting shit for him. Even if you don’t realize it, you put pressure on him, probably because he values your opinion.”

Azula, initially affronted by the unsolicited advice, is frozen a few seconds. Then she seems to sigh out her surprise. She settles on a smile, though scrutinizes him still. “If my ditzy uncle were here, he’d say something like: _you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Sokka_.” She can be referring to none other than the boba uncle, The Jasmine Dragon owner, for she imitates his distinct intonations with practiced ease.

Sokka’s not sure what to make of that statement. _Ditzy._ “Right.”

“I’m leaving for real this time.” She opens Sokka’s door, steps out. “Thanks for the indentation help.” The door closes briskly, leaves the thin wall quavering, and Sokka sags backward onto the sheets, left to ponder those last twenty minutes of his life.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Am _I_ sure? It was your idea.” Zuko stands by Sokka’s door, so close to it his shoulder blades might as well be glued there. His eyes trace a horizontal line and the tender skin at the corners of his eyes twinges in a grimace as Sokka, with all the might he can muster, pushes his bed from one wall to the other. “And… you’re clearly on board,” adds Zuko as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Exactly,” says Sokka, setting his knees on the floor for a brief moment of respite. He hikes them back up, shoves his bed the rest of the way. “I’m the driver, and you’re the passenger. So you need to be sure, too.”

Zuko breathes in, breathes out. “As long as my sister’s not home.”

“You said you saw her _leave_ —”

“I did. So we have to do it soon.”

Sokka gets to his feet, feels himself smirk. “Someone’s needy.”

That gets Zuko off the door. He takes a few unexpectedly long yet graceful steps toward Sokka, hissing, “Fuck the _fuck_ off.”

Sokka uses the terrain to his advantage—evades Zuko’s oncoming assault by sliding around him with socks on parquet—and laughingly makes it to his closet. “It was a joke. It’s all a joke, this is all a joke. Remember?” He opens the closet, peers around the door at Zuko, who slouches into Sokka’s rolling chair with defeat. Momentarily, Sokka forgets the task at hand, feels a pout come over him. “Hey.” He presses a hand against the closet, the other on his hip. “The whole _point_ of this is that it’s funny. If you’re not having fun, we’re not gonna do it.”

“No, Sokka, the _whole point_ is that Suki thinks we’ve—we’ve had sex.” Zuko stares at the ceiling, fingers interlinked over his stomach. He blinks several times, and Sokka can see the tiny purse in the very middle of his bottom lip, can spot the shadow it casts on his chin from across the room. “Just give me a second, I’ll lighten up. You’re annoying me. It’ll pass.”

Sokka lifts a brow. “Your vote of confidence is invaluable.” He turns back to the closet. And yes, maybe Zuko’s right, that underneath all this fake sex silliness Sokka _is_ trying to prove a point—make it known to his good friend-slash-ex that he is _not_ still creepily into her, like she might’ve implied when she’d called him out on his _weirdness_ at Point Reyes—but it shouldn’t mean they need to take the fun out of doing it. It, as in having fake sex, like Sokka had proposed… that very first time Zuko had come over under the pretext of their new relationship.

The first time. _Jesus_. Hypocritical of him, really, to go and call Zuko needy.

“What is that for?” Zuko asks, hesitant.

From the mess at the bottom of his closet, Sokka had unearthed an Allen wrench, which he twirls between his fingers as he pulls himself halfway under the bed like a mechanic beneath a car. “This is a very solid bed, Zuko,” he murmurs, pensive. “I bought it for seventy bucks from some dude I took linear algebra with three years ago, and let me tell you, when he said good as new, he was a man of his word. And if we want it to beat the shit out of that wall, I just need to…” He bites the tip of his tongue, sticks the wrench into a screw. “Loosen things up a bit down here, so to speak. Enhancement, baby.”

Zuko sighs deeply. From the corner of his eye and across the dusty floor, Sokka can see his black-socked feet roll outward to their sides. “Oh god,” he whimpers.

Sokka snickers, and his nose twitches against a dusty sneeze as he gives the screw half a twist. “That was a good practice round, but you’ll need to be a bit louder, maybe add a little _Soookka_ on the end there.”

A hush falls over the room. Zuko gives Sokka’s ankle a wimpy kick. “You’re… wow. I hate you.”

Sokka grins gleefully. He wiggles toward the opposite leg of the bed, probably gathering dirt on his back like a human Swiffer. “Fine, fine, you don’t have to be vocal. I’ll do it.”

There’s a shake to Zuko’s voice that Sokka is sure is a laugh. “Don’t do it if it’d be weird,” he mutters. Sokka feels a toe dig into his ankle. “Like… if Suki wouldn’t… expect to hear that. You know?”

Sokka wiggles out from under the bed, swats a dust bunny off his nose. He chuckles. “How sensible of you.”

“I’m trying to think realistically.” Zuko’s eyes follow Sokka as he stands. “Assuming she knows.”

“Knows what?” Sokka brushes the back of his shirt off and stands.

Meekly, Zuko says, “How you sound in bed.”

Sokka freezes, turns his head toward Zuko, who’s staring at Sokka’s unmade sheets. “What? Yeah—yes, she does. You know, Zuko, there was a time when I didn’t set rules about holding out however long to sleep with someone if they were down sooner. And—and that time has not ended, it’s still going. So.” He thinks he’s said too much, then, so he nods and goes to pull the bed from the wall a hair, loosen the screws by the wall. “ _Yes_ , I slept with Suki. Anyway, we were together a year, so we probably would’ve sooner than later if we hadn’t, like, you know. Banged after our first date. But we were friends for a long time before that!”

At first, Zuko says nothing, but Sokka can hear him swiveling back and forth a few inches on the chair, the feathery skim of his socked toes across the floor. “You sure that won’t collapse?” Zuko murmurs, skeptical.

“The bed? Nope.”

Zuko snorts. “Okay.”

“Say,” Sokka hums then, like he’s straight out of 1960s Wyoming, “if we—if we _actually_ did this, like… not that I’m suggesting anything, _obviously_ , I’m just asking, like, out of curiosity. Scholastic—scholastic inquiry, if you will. So, yeah. What would we do?” It’s far easier to ask Zuko when his back is turned.

Somewhere behind him, Zuko chuckles, a quiet, breathy sound that has the back of Sokka’s neck breaking out in goosebumps. “I don’t understand the question.”

Sokka groans, stands when he can no longer pretend to fiddle with the screw. He looks Zuko in the eye, which he has to give himself kudos for. “If we were having sex, Zuko,” he states, pointing the wrench at Zuko, who exhibits no visible reaction. “How would we go about it?”

“Am I suddenly the fount of knowledge between the two of us?” There’s a certain wryness to Zuko’s tone. Sokka’s cheeks prickle with heat, but he smiles gallantly through it.

“Well, _maybe_.” Sokka sits on the bed, unties his hair so he can run his fingers through it. “I mean, I know—I can _infer_ the basic mechanics of it all. But I’ve never hooked up with a dude before.” He rubs at his one eye, looks at Zuko with the other. “If you have, then… it _would_ make you the fount of knowledge, yeah.” He nods decidedly.

Zuko huffs out his nose, wriggles his fingers where they rest in the valleys between his knuckles. “Only a couple times.” He crosses his legs at the ankles. “Freshman year. And they... were all strangers, we were always drunk, it was all kinds of shitty. But—your question. _How?_ Um…” His nose wrinkles as his eyes go out of focus somewhere ahead. “It’s just like hooking up with anyone else. Depends… unless it doesn’t. I get the impression that most college guys just kind of… want to put it in.” He rubs a hand across his eyes. “Exclusively, just… you know. Find a hole, put it in.”

Sokka frowns in thought. He reflects on every conversation he’s ever had with dudes about sex in his past four years, on what he might’ve been guilty of himself if it hadn’t always been so easy for him to develop such intense _crushes_. “Yeah, yeah,” he concedes. “Just about sums it up.”

Zuko’s lips quirk, and then it’s gone.

“Alright, let’s say I wasn’t a total douchebag like the everyday Joe College,” Sokka offers, twisting his hair tie tight around his thumb until his skin starts to go purple, “and we’d—you and me—we’d been dating, like, as long as _this_ has been going on. So, like, I didn’t want to put it in just _any_ hole, only…”

It’s when he falters that Zuko chuckles. “Sorry, continue,” Zuko says, self-correcting before Sokka can even react. He’s still melted over Sokka’s chair, long legs in black joggers stretched out in front of him.

“Well, I’ll put it this way: _whose_ hole? And how do you decide?”

A lull in their conversation, if it could be called that. Zuko’s face is the height of amusement, eyes dark and crinkled in the low light, and Sokka’s grin is embarrassed. “I want to know!” he insists, and when he releases the pressure on the hair tie, it flings itself to the corner of the room.

“Okay, well,” says Zuko, and his eyes shift to the door and back, like he’s worried for eavesdroppers, “assuming you and Suki had some kind of… um, I don’t know, _object-in-hole_ sex—fuck, I sound like you.” He chuckles with disbelief, and Sokka’s too busy trying to act casual and not go utterly pink in the face to say _what’s that supposed to mean?!_ Zuko continues, “Assuming _that_ , then you both had your preferences. And reconciled them somehow. About, like, what object. And what hole. That’s… also assuming you both liked putting things in holes.” He shrugs, and he’s smirking, faint and awkward, as he looks down at his hands. “Same as anything. There’s no secret. Just depends on who likes what.”

Sokka, silent for a breath, mutters, “I don’t know what else I was expecting.”

Zuko’s eyes flicker to him. “I’ll take a guess.” He scratches his chin, sits up. “That when you figure out you might like dudes, your fairy godmother shows up with the manual on _How to Like Dudes_ and explains everything.”

Sokka doesn’t try to suppress his smile. “That’d be fucking great, actually. Straightforward. Not _straight_ straight, obviously, but.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. He’s toeing at the overhanging sheets on Sokka’s bed, and Sokka can’t think of a thing to say, but it feels like the heat in his body has been slowly rising like the upward-creeping mercury in a hot thermometer. And he needs to diffuse it.

He springs from the mattress, grabs onto the nearest bedpost, grins with pride when giving it a shake makes the whole bed wobble. “Shall we?”

Sokka sits cross-legged, and—technically, yes, he’s humping the mattress. He slaps Zuko on the shoulder, probably for the eighth time because he won’t quit fucking laughing, shrill and silent and breathless, and it’s ruining the gag. Sokka doesn’t actually want him to stop, but it’s just not part of the plan.

“So you’re all _Mr. Realism_ until we actually do the deed, huh?” Sokka hisses.

Zuko heaves a breath, arm slung across his eyes. He’s on his back on the mattress, his other hand is clenched over his stomach, and all Sokka can see is his white smile, the flick of his tongue over his lips. “Just keep going,” Zuko mutters, and lifts his arm from his eyes, if only to dab at the _tears_ in their corners.

Sokka’s relaxed by now, though, the feverish flush of twenty minutes ago replaced by familiar ease. It’s why he can glare at Zuko with a relentless poker face, unresponsive and still.

“Ugh, _fine_.” Zuko clears his throat, lifts his volume a decibel or two. “Don’t stop, Sokka,” he cries, a truly abysmal attempt at enthusiasm, “don’t stop,” but that, too, dissolves into hopeless laughter. Even so, the smile returns to Sokka’s face, reluctant but syrupy as he starts up again, bouncing against the mattress, rattling the rickety bed frame against the wall. _Poor wall_ , he thinks. _Poor Suki_. But all in good humor.

“Fuck you, man,” Sokka mutters under his breath, under a quiet chuckle.

“Go faster,” murmurs Zuko as he closes his eyes. He snaps his fingers near Sokka’s face. “I’m tired. Thought you’d be done by now.”

“I can be hypothetically done when I decide to be hypothetically done,” Sokka asserts. “My hypothetical stamina is out of this world.” But he complies, even gets on his knees so he can curl fingers over the short edge of the mattress, power it against the wall with a _thump thump thump_ that reliably coaxes another cackle from Zuko. “Finishing strong,” Sokka whispers to him, then raises his voice for a terribly theatrical groan of, “oh, _fuck_.” Just for Zuko, he crosses his eyes as he says it, but he hardly has a chance to check if his foolishness hits home because the earth below them seems to open up, apocalyptic and ready to welcome them home to hell with a resonating series of _boom_ s. Sokka only realizes it’s the sound of his bed slats collapsing to the floor and half his mattress following when he and Zuko end up crammed together at the foot of the bed, halfway on the floor, having slid between the dipping, concave end of the mattress and the bed’s footboard.

Zuko’s eyes are wide and wild under his too-long bangs, gawking at the arching mattress beneath him and clutching Sokka’s upper arm with a bruising grip. “Did…”

Sokka, on his stomach with legs sprawled across the floor, nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, winded.

“Did you just break your bed.”

“Yeah. Yep.”

Sokka’s watching from the corner of his eye as Zuko bites down hard on his lower lip, stifles another fucking laugh.

They might be desensitized now to sudden loud sounds, because when Aang’s fist comes down on the door, neither flinches. “Sokka?” Aang calls, frantic. “Zuko? I heard—uh… Everything okay in there?”

“Just dandy.” Sokka lays his forehead to the mattress, and his hand—patting around first on Zuko’s chest and neck—finds Zuko’s face, flattens over his stupidly endearing giggling mouth. “Handling it. Don’t worry. Go back to meditating.”

Aang’s nails must scrape over the door. “How’d you know I was meditating?” His voice is muffled.

“Sixth sense.”

“You guys were making it kinda har—difficult.”

“Sorry, bro.”

Aang knocks twice gently, hums. “Alright. Take care in there.” And at last, when he shuffles away, Sokka sets his face against the mattress, feels a twinge down his spine at the painful angle of his lower back.

“Zuko,” he mumbles, freeing his mouth when he remembers to.

Zuko sighs, but there’s the stutter-y dregs of a laugh in his breath. “What?”

Twisting his neck to peer again at Zuko, Sokka sticks out his lower lip. “Will you help me put my bed back together?”

The avalanche of them sliding off the bed seems to have stabilized enough that Zuko can ease his grip on Sokka’s arm. “I don’t have anywhere else to sleep,” Zuko mutters, “so… yeah.”

“Thanks, love you.” It slips out as a joke, but for whatever reason, Sokka’s shoulders go tense.

Zuko’s eyes are closed, resigned to his evening’s carpentry fate. But Sokka watches him smile.

Sokka wheezes out a laugh, settling on the edge of the (now) stable bed. “Suki texted me twenty minutes ago.”

“Here it comes.” Zuko sounds the opposite of thrilled as he lays on his side on Sokka’s bed. He’s unreasonably sleepy for having been the world’s worst carpentry assistant.

_Thursday 10:41pm_

**sukibuki**

are you hurt?

_10:43pm_

**sukibuki**

sorry i swear i wasn’t eavesdropping in fact i was trying very hard to avoid it (a la studying in toph and katara’s room, noise canceling headphones, etc) but toph said it sounded like the ceiling caved in or a bomb went off or something so i wanted to check

“We only did this ‘cos you said she called you _weird_.” Zuko presses his face into a pillow. “Might’ve just dug yourself a deeper hole.”

_11:02pm_

**Sokka**

Only minor injuries sustained

Sorry for the noise mwah xoxoxo

**sukibuki**

no worries lmao ;)

wanna do 190 tomorrow?

**Sokka**

Please

I need your big sexy brain

**sukibuki**

ok wtf too soon…

jokes ok i’ll print the psets

“Nope.” Sokka sets his phone down on the floor, rolls onto his back, a quirk to his lips. “No holes of weirdness. Message _de-_ livered.”

A few feet away, Zuko blinks drowsy eyes at him. His black hair and the shadows it casts are chiaroscuro on the white pillow. “Suki’s never gonna look me in the eye again.”

“Oh no, my friend.” Sokka chuckles. “She _will_ look you in the eye. And she will be very smug about it.”

Zuko groans, close-lipped, smudges his bangs from his forehead. They fall right back into place.

Sokka reaches out, strokes them toward his right ear. “It’s _Azula_ who won’t be able to look _me_ in the eye if Suki tells her. I mean—you should’ve seen her the other day when she came over here, wouldn’t even sit on the bed at first because she thought we’d—oh my god, what word did she use? _Fornicated_?” He huffs out a laugh. “ _Fornicated_ on here.” Then, a quick afterthought: “You need a haircut, baby.”

“Azula came here?” Zuko peers at Sokka through the gaps in Sokka’s own fingers. “Why?”

“To get my help on a CS project. I’m kind of a god, you know. Sometimes.” Sokka lets his hand relax against the mattress. Hesitantly, he adds, “And to tell me she’s decided we should be civil. Her and I.”

Zuko’s brows furrow, but not unhappily. “Oh.”

“Shockingly, I think her intentions were _genuinely_ good.”

Zuko snorts. “She’s not a bad person, Sokka. You just make yourself an easy target for her special brand of humor.”

Sokka doesn’t argue this. He’s unfailingly indignant when it comes to Azula’s jabs. For a bit, he says nothing. Then, “Come here.”

Zuko, blinking his eyes back open, mumbles, “Why?”

Sokka arches a challenging eyebrow. “Because I told you to.”

There’s a second that Sokka thinks Zuko might just roll over and ignore him, but once that second is up, Zuko looks at him, unreadable but awake, and crawls closer to Sokka. “What do you want,” he mutters, lethargic, and Sokka’s heart lurches in his chest most unnaturally.

“Come here,” Sokka repeats, quiet, and he gets his hands on Zuko’s hips, hauls him into his lap. Mentally, Sokka feels like he’s teetering on some precipice over an abyss of dark nothingness, but physically, he’s rooted to the mattress, warm now under Zuko’s weight.

Zuko sits atop him, looks comfortable despite the jostling-around. His lays a hand on Sokka’s stomach, on his thin t-shirt, rubs his fingers over his heavy-lidded, scarred eye.

“Gonna fall asleep on me?” Sokka whispers, and Zuko shakes his head, shows a little bit of smile. “You sure?” asks Sokka, hands on Zuko’s thighs, who then covers Sokka’s hands with his own, slides them up nearer to his hips.

“‘m not,” says Zuko faintly, and there he is again, expression wiped clean but for the always-tense set of his brow. It puts Sokka on edge.

“Take off your shirt,” he tells Zuko. And Zuko complies fast, tugs off the clean top he’d brought for his post-Spirit change, drops it to the floor. Sokka’s stomach feels bottomless, then, looking at the contours of Zuko’s body in the low light, lean and strong. Sokka lifts up onto his hands, and Zuko must take it as some sign of permission because he reacts quickly again, leans over to fit his fingers over Sokka’s jaw and kiss him squarely on the mouth.

Sokka hums, pleased with surprise, and he can’t help but _touch_ now, is stunned he’s made it this long without. His palm runs up the hot skin on Zuko’s side, and as their lips separate he murmurs, “You like that? Like it when I tell you what to do?”

Zuko’s jaw works a bit. His eyes are golden-brown from the glow of Sokka’s shitty lamp-on-the-floor and his hair skims his eyelashes. Haircut needed, indeed. It’s unfair how much Sokka likes his face. He doesn’t respond and doesn’t look away, and Sokka feels his knees tighten at Sokka’s sides, feels him move his hips like he might in a dance routine, his ass against the cradle of Sokka’s hips.

Sokka’s exhale is sharp, hot against the backs of his teeth, and Zuko’s arms twine around his neck, molten eyes dipping out of view as he kisses Sokka under his jaw, dry and warm and then wet. A tiny, nebulous part of Sokka thinks he should be embarrassed when he feels a stir in his gut, thinks Zuko might feel it, too, as Sokka’s cock thickens in his boxers. There’s layers between them, though, many of them, and that same, tiny part of Sokka is relieved Zuko’s not looking him in the eye.

Sokka grunts when Zuko rolls teeth over his earlobe, gasps a bit when Zuko draws back to peer down between their bodies and mumbles, “Whoa,” like he wouldn’t expect Sokka to spring a boner when Zuko’s grinding on him like _that_.

Sokka lets out a delirious laugh, and his eyes are wild, drinking in Zuko’s face, again the slivers of his irises between the thick locks of his hair. “Yeah. _Whoa_.”

“Mmm.” Zuko tips his head back up, and his nose brushes Sokka’s as he kisses the corner of Sokka’s lips, his bottom one. Sokka feels breathless, hand dragging over Zuko’s leg, feeling the strong flex of his thigh, and Zuko’s still in motion until he isn’t, faltering to a stop with his hands on Sokka’s shoulders. “Please don't hate me,” he says, in a whisper and so sudden that Sokka feels like the nonexistent wind has changed direction.

“What?” He touches Zuko’s forearm, squeezes gently. “ _Hate_ you?”

“It’s—” Zuko’s pink in the cheeks, and he shifts off Sokka’s lap, seats himself cross-legged on the mattress with eyes on his lap. “I’m just—sorry.” He rubs at his eye. “Can we stop? I’m not ready for—that.”

Sokka, less than graceful with an erection tenting his sweats, sits up like lightning and sets his hands firmly on Zuko’s knees. “Zuko,” he says, shaky but smiling and yearning for eye contact. “I don’t—I don’t hate you, I could never, what the fuck.” He shakes his head. “You’re okay. We don’t have to. We don’t have to do _anything_. Nothing! We can just _exist_. _Be_. Clusters of atoms in an objective reality.”

Silence. Zuko sighs into the hand that’s now covering his face. “I made it awkward.”

“No,” Sokka disagrees, insistent. “No, no. It’s not awkward. Could’ve _been_ awkward if we’d kept going and I’d done something totally dumb, but hey, you saved me from that, so. Thanks.”

Ruefully, Zuko lowers his hand. He smiles at Sokka, that undetectable smile that Sokka’s grown to like so much.

“And anyhow,” Sokka says, patting Zuko on the knee and reclining on the bed, “it’s good to know I’m in working order down there.” _And that I'll have to go to sleep with a boner._

“Were you having doubts?” Zuko snorts as he lifts the covers to slip underneath.

It’d been a joke on Sokka’s fall semester dry spell, but for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond without being utterly truthful and confessing things he’d rather keep to himself. “Maybe,” he says dubiously, and turns off the light.

Into the dark, Zuko says, “Felt fully functional.”

Sokka wheezes out a laugh. “Stop talking about my dick, he’s right there.”

“Sorry.”

There’s a rustle of sheets as Sokka gets under them, shifts around to find a good spot. No matter the angle, his dick is still hot and heavy against his stomach. No avoiding that. Taking a deep breath, cheek on the pillow, Sokka murmurs, “Again, I don’t hate you,” toward Zuko’s side of the bed. “Not at all.”

The air is still and soundless, then the mattress creaks. “Where’s your fucking face?” huffs Zuko, and then his hand claps down on Sokka’s cheek, hard enough to sting the skin. He feels around, thumbing at Sokka’s chin and his lips, all while Sokka grins comically into the pitch-black. Then Zuko comes close, skin warm and smelling clean, and kisses his lips slightly off-kilter.

Sokka’s half-awake, and even his internal clock is fighting against it as he opens an eye. The screensaver on his computer monitor reads _8:22am_ , and heavy on his chest is Zuko’s head, hand tucked close to his face on Sokka’s ribs.

“Baby,” he whispers blearily, then corrects himself as he shakes Zuko by the loose grip on his waist, “Zuko.”

“Hm.” Toes brush Sokka’s ankle.

“It’s eight twenty-two.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you have class?”

Zuko nods against him, stretches his arm long over Sokka’s belly. “I’m not going.”

“Oh.” Sokka’s eyes trace the slope of Zuko’s nose. “I shouldn’t be… encouraging you to shirk your educational duties.”

“Can you stop talking,” Zuko says, voice rough. Sokka blinks, then grins, face feeling puffy.

“You’re so charming in the morning. Is this why you always leave at six? To spare me?”

Zuko sighs out his nose, long-suffering. Then his long fingers find Sokka’s nipple. He pinches. Sokka yowls. “I said stop talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)


	9. 09 - duele el corazón

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take this chapter as a sort of interlude before the next two that are both twice as long LOL. thank you for reading ♥

Sokka bombs the CS 190 midterm the evening of Halloween.

In retrospect, though, he realizes he’d forgotten to study for it. Any time he’d explicitly calendared to do so that week had been sucked up into the vortex of job applications. It’s like he’s spent the first several months of school an ostrich, head underground, and came out to see the light just in time to flunk that week’s midterm—the _light_ , as in the fact that he’s graduating in May and tech recruitment moves fast and his ass needs to make money somewhere that isn’t on Jeff Bezos’ payroll.

Sokka might’ve cared about his lost Halloween had he still been Freshman Year Sokka, hell-bent on getting the most out of a full weekend by gawking at girls in short skirts in fifty-degree weather. Or had he still been vegan co-op Sokka; there’d been an orgy (involving dark chocolate) that weekend he’d been far too excited for but now would rather forget.

But when this Halloween rolls around, he’s spent a grand sum of no minutes planning for a costume, shoots down Aang’s every suggestion of duos from animes Sokka’s never finished, and anyhow, it comes too fast for him to pretend he gives much of a fuck.

He’s post-midterm schlepping down their hallway at Walnut Street with Aang, who looks about ready to collapse from exhaustion, and Suki, who undoubtedly did well but is keeping quiet probably for Sokka’s sake, when a door flies open and spills warm light onto the gray floors. Azula steps into the hall, shouting, “ _There_ you are!” in a red corseted leotard, matching red bunny ears, fishnet stockings. Sokka’s shoe squeaks against the floor as he stumbles slightly, feels the urge to cover his eyes. “I’ve been texting you!” She holds up her phone, rattles it in the air. “And watching you walk here at negative-twenty miles per hour on Find My Friends!”

Her fury is, of course, directed at Suki. “I had a midterm, you knew this,” Suki says, and she jogs up ahead of them, grinning. “You look so fucking good!”

“I know.” Azula takes Suki’s backpack for her, hustles her inside. “Your turn, go change. Yue’s already here.” When she recalls the presence of Sokka and Aang, whose passage she’s blocking as she stands in the hallway, she shoots them a look, fingers white-knuckled around Suki’s backpack strap. “What?”

“Civil,” Sokka comments drily, but Aang barrels over him: “ _Wow_ , Azula, you look— _awesome!_ Let me guess, Easter bunny?”

Azula is gobsmacked, but it only shows in her eyes. “You’re kidding, right?” She looks at Sokka. “He’s kidding.”

Behind Azula, Katara teeters by, not the steadiest in her stilettos, but she matches Azula in everything but that her leotard and ears are baby blue. “Oh,” she croaks, embarrassed at the sight of them, and Sokka decides to put them all out of their misery.

“They’re Playboy Bunnies, Aang. Excuse us.” He shoves Aang along by the shoulder, gives Azula a _please move_ look. She leaps nimbly out of their way, gladly swings the door shut.

Aang moves like he’s made of lead. “Katara,” he breathes belatedly, and Sokka rolls his eyes.

“You need to go to bed.” He shoulders open the door to their apartment.

“I hope they take pictures.”

Sokka arches an eyebrow.

“Your sister…”

“Aang, _please_.”

“She was _RBG_ last year. With a… gavel. And everything.” Aang blinks, eyes unhinged, and he’s still in the doorway. Sokka has to close the door behind him. “And now she’s a sexy Easter bunny.”

“Playboy Bunny,” Sokka repeats, not that he particularly wants to think about it.

“Wow,” Aang whispers. “She’s so… so cute.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sokka slaps him on the back. “Sleep tight, buddy. Don’t stand there all night.”

Aang glances rapidly at Sokka. “Do you think they’d let me go out with them if I asked?”

Sokka snorts and traipses toward his room. “Shoot your shot, man.”

Aang rubs at his eyes. “Fuck. I need, like… three matchas.”

“Or a vodka Red Bull.”

“Gross.” Aang sighs. “But yeah, probably.” He yawns, long and guttural. “Hey, Sokka, do you still have that party store tutu?”

_Friday 10:50pm_

**Sokka**

The sway your sister has over people is unbridled

I don’t think she can be stopped

It’s too late.

**zuko**

what

why do u always talk like that

liek

weird

**Sokka**

She’s assembling an army of playboy bunnies next door

**zuko**

what

**Sokka**

Are you high

**zuko**

yeah

**Sokka**

LMAO

**zuko**

stop

i m so confused

**Sokka**

It’s Halloween

At least three quarters of the people living next door are dressing as playboy bunnies

**zuko**

wait

its hallowen?

**Sokka**

Yes

**zuko**

oh

ok

how was ur midterm

* * *

Every year, Sokka marvels at how fast the student-penned _No School November_ whizzes by. And at least half of campus picks up and leaves on the Friday before the last week of the month, though the following Monday and Tuesday are still technically days of instruction. It’s eerie walking campus for those few days that it’s been milked of the going-home-for-Thanksgiving crowd; not a soul in the library, a lack of lines at Walgreens but extra-long ones at Trader Joe’s, shelves liquidated of tofurkey roasts. Sokka’s able to snag one, but only for Aang’s sake; the thought of wheat gluten rolled into the indefinite shape of a roasted hunk of meat makes him want to gag.

Mai takes Ty Lee to down Monterey for the week, and she invites Zuko and Azula along. To her house, that is—not their father’s, just a stone’s throw away. Sokka isn’t surprised to hear Zuko stays behind—he’d once mentioned he sees his boba uncle more than he does his father—but he is a bit jarred when on the fourth Thursday of the month, just past three in the morning, Azula shows up on the heels of Katara, Toph, and Suki as they step through Aang and Sokka’s doorway. They’re all meant to head to San Francisco’s Pier 33, as Aang and Sokka have done the past three years—this time in Zuko’s tiny car—in time to make the annual _Unthanksgiving Day_ sunrise ceremony on Alcatraz Island.

Zuko had spent the night, and he’s standing with heavy eyelids weighed shut and a cheek on Sokka’s shoulder, totally unlike the early riser he claims to be.

“Hi, Zuzu,” says Azula. Cordially, she nods at Sokka. “Sokka. Good morning.”

Zuko’s frowning, still rubbing his eyes, as Sokka flashes her a faint smile and a thumbs-up. “Glad you could make it.”

In the evening, they convene next door for dinner, where there’s an actual dining table and six more dining chairs than Aang and Sokka own (courtesy of Azula). Suki makes dumplings from scratch, and Aang hovers at her shoulder, as if silently paranoid she’ll slip animal products into those she’s said she’ll stuff with veggies.

Sokka decides he doesn’t hate the uppity velvet couch once he’s on it, beer in one hand and Zuko’s shoulder under the other. Aang sits down on Sokka’s other side, his trust left with Suki, and clears his throat to silence any idle chitchat.

“I kind of wish Ty Lee and Mai were here,” Aang mumbles, bottom lip pouted. “But now’s as good a time as any!” He sticks his hand deep in the pocket of his elephant-printed harem pants, draws out what first looks like a handful of tangled spaghetti in rainbow colors. He tosses his loot onto the coffee table, slides onto his knees to sort out his… “I made everyone friendship bracelets!” He plucks one up that’s woven tightly with zigzags of many shades of pink. “To match all your auras. Don’t worry, Zuko, this one’s not yours.” He grins and wiggles the pink one like he’s trying to taunt a fish with a worm, then tosses it off to the side.

“Impressive craftsmanship,” Azula decides as she inspects the pink bracelet. Sokka guesses that particular one is meant for Ty Lee. “Tell me, do you ever study?” She looks critically at Aang over her beer bottle.

“I am a master of time management.” Aang untangles a few of the bracelets, hands Azula a black one, braided with a red, snake-like squiggle. “That’s for you.”

“I’m just gonna take this moment to admit that I’ve never seen Aang study,” Sokka says to the room, gesturing with his beer. “I lived in the _same room_ as him. For three years. And in that time, I walked in on him jacking off more times than I’ve seen him study! Which is easy to beat ‘cos that number is fucking zero!”

Azula’s lost interest in that topic. “I like this,” she states, complimentary, twisting her snake bracelet around her bony wrist. She sets her beer down, then lays her palm to Toph’s thigh, sticking the bracelet between their fingers. “Tie it on me.”

“Speaking of neglecting one’s educational responsibilities,” Sokka muses, taking a swig from his beer and turning accusingly on Zuko, silent and warm under his arm, “I’ve never seen _you_ study either.”

“Zuko and I just have passing classes down to an art, unlike you chumps,” remarks Aang, then extends his hand toward Sokka, bracelet proffered. “Yours, my good sir.”

Zuko laughs, an unexpected sound as Sokka takes the bracelet between two fingers. “What?” Sokka mutters. Then to Aang, “I’ll treasure it forever.” He pulls his foot up onto the couch. “On my ankle!”

“It’s the bi flag,” Zuko says lightly, which draws Azula’s attention.

“What is?”

“Sokka’s friendship bracelet.” Zuko smirks, swipes it from his fingers.

“Hm?” Aang’s squinting at a blue bracelet, woven with pearly little beads. “It’s just Sokka’s aura! You know. Pink, purple, blue.”

“What you’re really saying, Aang, is that Sokka emanates bi energy.” Zuko’s amusement is tangible, but Sokka doesn’t have the heart to pretend to be pissed off, mostly because there’s nothing to be pissed off about as Zuko ties the bracelet around Sokka’s ankle. The knot snags on some of Sokka’s leg hairs, making him twitch, but Zuko kisses his knee and lowers his foot to the floor for him.

 _You’re cute_ , Sokka doesn’t say. “That makes no sense,” he begins instead, resettling his arm across Zuko’s shoulders. “And as much as I believe in the integrity of our friendship, Aang, I know jackshit about the implications of an _aura_ —”

Without a glance Sokka’s way, Aang stands and trills, “Katara!” He shuffles off with the blue bracelet. Suki pulls Azula away to help set the table. Sokka’s left with Zuko—and Toph, who snickers and says, “You know, I can’t remember the last time someone humored one of your nihilistic secular rants. Maybe the time has come for you to find something else to drone on about.”

“I’m not a nihilist.” Sokka sticks his beer between his thighs, scratches his jaw. “Not… strictly.”

Katara comes and sits in Aang’s old spot. Around her wrist is now the beaded, blue bracelet, the one that looks like it took ten times longer to make than the others. She stoops low and peers down at Sokka’s ankle, thoughtful, and Sokka almost works up the nerve to stick his toes in her face before he considers safety as a precaution.

“What was I saying?” Sokka pipes up. His middle finger circles over Zuko’s shoulder, traces the curve of muscle there. “Before the—ah, right.” He turns his head, nose very close to the side of Zuko’s face. “That you never study.”

“We’re not together twenty-four-seven,” Zuko points out, and he won’t look Sokka in the eye. Whether he’s annoyed or playing hard-to-get, Sokka can’t tell.

“Wait.” Sokka’s face goes blank. “I—I don’t even _know_ what you’re studying. What your major is. How do I not know?” He shoots a distressed look across the living area at a very uninterested Toph. “How did I never ask?! I’m the worst boyfriend ever!”

“Pre-med,” Zuko supplies quickly. He scratches at the tip of his nose. For reasons Sokka can’t explain, he’s baffled by the concept of Zuko studying medicine. “It’s not—I don’t know why you would’ve asked, it’s not an interesting topic—”

Katara leans her elbows on her knees. “You told me you were doing business.”

Zuko’s voice is scratchy as he mumbles, “I did?”

“Yeah.” Katara’s brows lift. “Like, ages ago. The first time we got boba.”

“Oh,” Zuko mumbles. The sudden tension in his shoulders makes Sokka frown. Sokka nearly interjects to ask if they’ve had the _audacity_ to get boba without him _more_ than once, when Zuko clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, can we—”

“You _are_ a senior, right? Like, graduating this year?” Sokka asks offhandedly. “I hope I at least have that down. Pre-med _and_ business is a pretty ambitious double, though. I honestly didn’t know that was a thing, but—”

More vehemently this time, Zuko says, “Can we drop it?” He shrugs out from under Sokka’s arm. “I don’t want to talk about it, anyway. Like I said, not important. I need to…” He squeezes around the coffee table, lopes toward the bathroom. He closes the door with a bit too much force.

Sokka and Katara share a look. Sokka’s arm is still draped over the back of the couch, over an invisible body.

“He’s probably stressed,” Katara whispers. She’s watching the bathroom door, eyes full of sympathy. Then she pats Sokka on the knee. “Let’s drop it.”

“Probably for the best,” Sokka agrees, but the odd exchange hangs over Sokka’s head like a murky cloud, even when Suki calls them to the table and Zuko emerges from the bathroom, face a bit flushed but otherwise his usual self.

* * *

“Can I ask you something?”

Sokka pauses the movie with a big toe to the spacebar. “Don’t tell me you’re not on the edge of your seat,” he says coyly, though Zuko had made it very clear that if they watched _Return of the Jedi_ like Sokka _so_ wanted to, he couldn’t expect Zuko to stay awake. It’s the riveting Sunday night before the last week of classes for the fall semester—followed, of course, by dead week and final exams. “This next fight is legendary.”

Zuko rubs at his eyes. Mai and Ty Lee had returned to town earlier that day, and Zuko had met up with the latter to squeeze in one last long duet practice before the showcase the upcoming Friday. “I literally have no idea what’s going on,” he mumbles, muffled against his hand. “You skipped the other movies that would’ve given me context.”

Indeed, Sokka had made the executive decision to skip episodes IV and V. He’s watched them before—Zuko hasn’t, and apparently has no interest. “You would’ve slept through them anyway.”

“I’m awake now, aren’t I?” Zuko mutters, prickly.

“It’s because I dropped you in the thick of the plot. In medias res. You’re too confused to sleep.”

Zuko’s tongue presses to the inside of his cheek, dents it outward. Then he slides down, lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.

Sokka snorts, goes to unpause the movie, but freezes with his foot in the air. “Didn’t you want to ask something?”

“Oh.” Zuko rubs his hands over his face—dancing a lot is tiring, or something—and sits up wearily. “Yeah. Um… okay. Context.” He’s slumped over his knees, eyes toward the foot of Sokka’s bed. “My father’s girlfriend—he has this girlfriend, like… way younger than him, but they’ve been together a while. Since around the time I moved out. Jennie. She’s nice. Aside from his money, I don’t know why she’s with him, but she seems like she actually cares. Uh, so, she texted me a few days ago, me and Azula, asked if we’d come have dinner with her and my father out in Pebble Beach once break starts. Azula straight up said no, which, like. I won’t fight her on it.” He sighs. “It’s not like I want to _see_ my father. Or spend time with him. But I just…” He draws his knee up to his chest, rests his chin atop. “It’s a lot to ask.”

Sokka angles himself toward Zuko. “So, you…”

“Do you wanna come?” Zuko peers at him, smile weak. “It’d be, like… the Saturday break starts. We could be back the next day. I mean, you already probably have tickets to go home. I don’t know why I’m asking.” He looks away. “I mean, I do. I do know why. Because I want to fuck with my father. But that’s… I don’t know. Stupid.”

For a while, Sokka just nods, faint, absent-minded. He waits for Zuko to look his way again, then smirks. “You want to take the Fake Boyfriend Game to your dad’s.”

Even Zuko’s breathing is tentative. “Yeah.”

Sokka slaps him square in the back. “Hell yeah!” He hops to sit back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “I’ll pack my acting chops, maybe a change of underwear.” He wriggles his toes, gazes dreamily at the window. “And I’ll get to see your house! I already have this picture in my head, like— _mansion_. All marble. But I don’t think my flight’s ’til the Tuesday or Wednesday after finals end, so. Free as a bird, baby.”

Zuko’s frowning— _why?_ “Is that a yes?” He blinks. “Just like that?”

“Dude.” Sokka chuckles. “We started this so we _could_ fuck with people. Of course I’ll fuck with your dad. Is he a homophobe, or something?”

The line between Zuko’s brows disappears, and he only seems tired. “Something like that.”

Sokka watches him. It’s one of those many times that he’s curious, but blocked by nerves from probing deeper. “I could make that dinner a total shitshow, if you wanted.”

Zuko stretches out his legs, reaches for his toes. Several somethings in his back pop. “What do you mean?”

Sokka shrugs. “I don’t know. Could mean many things.” He laces his fingers in his lap. “I could show up dressed like I haven’t showered in two months because _surfing_ is too important.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I could… put my bare feet on the dinner table. Drink all your dad’s expensive wine, spill it on his rug. Use the bathroom and leave the seat up. Shit like that.”

Zuko sits back up, hands on his knees. Sokka was hoping for at least a smile, but he barely gets that—in fact, Zuko’s head is tilted away, silent, like he’s contemplating. Then he reclines again, head on the pillow, but turns so he’s hugging Sokka’s lap with one arm, forehead glued to the side of Sokka’s hip. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Sokka lays his hand to Zuko’s hair.

* * *

“Are we sitting front row or not?”

In a panic, Sokka’s gaze whips between said front row, and an attractive alternative a few rows back he thinks could give them a more holistic, _balanced_ view of the stage. He just wants to see Zuko the best he can, is all. But there are six of them including Yue and the first row is already filling quickly. Mai hooks her talons around Sokka’s arm. “Grab the middle six seats,” she calls to Katara, pointing a black nail at the frontmost row.

“What if—” Sokka’s croaking, but Mai mutters, “You’ll see him just fine.” She pushes through the patronage like an icebreaker ship cloaked in black from head to toe, long, lacy skirt skimming her ankles. “Number one perk of front row is you’re close enough to see Zuko’s eyeliner.”

Sokka, wide-eyed, lowers himself into the seat Mai shoves him toward. “Eyeliner?”

She sits next to him and says nothing, a smirk on her lips. And Sokka stares, waiting for a response, but one never comes.

He texts Zuko a picture of the curtained stage, and it takes forever to send in the crowded theater. In all his four years, Sokka’s never been inside Sato Auditorium, and it’s more impressive than he’d expected; the velvet curtains are a rich red, probably worth replacements for half the shitty desks in Raiko Hall; the sprawling ceiling looks like it’s miles away, an abstract tessellation of wood and lights and colored glass.

_Friday 6:48pm_

**Sokka**

I was told there’d be eyeliner

**zuko**

lol

**Sokka**

I humbly beg that you leave it on for afterwards

**zuko**

humble begging huh?

**Sokka**

Yep

Merde, my tiny dancer

I googled and checked that’s okay to say and won’t cast evil voodoo on your performance

**zuko**

wow

thanks

Aang takes the seat beside Sokka, digs his absurdly strong fingers into Sokka’s scalp to tousle his hair out of place.

“Dude,” Sokka chokes. He swats him away, doesn’t look up from his phone.

**zuko**

come meet us at the west side entrance after

Sokka’s responding mishmash of emojis never sends, or, at least, the loading bar never reaches the right side of his screen. Mai hisses at him to put his phone away when the lights begin to dim, and Sokka hurries to squint at the paper program while light remains. He knows Spirit isn’t up for several acts, but he has to be sure.

Sokka is no dance critic—after all, he’s been to one Spirit practice and two of Suki’s dance competitions. But he decides he enjoys watching dance exponentially more when it’s his best friends doing the dancing.

The group prior to Spirit dances to Justin Bieber’s newest song, which gives Sokka a headache. He’s rubbing at his eyes, hiding them in the dark of his palms, when Mai jabs her talons at his knee and the stage goes black. “They’re on next.”

“We should’ve brought air horns,” whines Aang. He’s physically moved to the edge of his seat.

The acts to follow Spirit pass by in a blur. Sokka spends most of it slumped in his seat, probably a sorry sight for the performers if they’re able to see the front row, but he can’t help it, not when images of Zuko in a sheer, low-scooping tank top under his windbreaker—which hung mostly off his shoulders when he wasn’t breaking—are stamped on the insides of his eyelids.

The group songs had been in Korean, and Ty Lee and Zuko’s duet in Spanish—and Sokka is far from competent at both. It only meant that not even lyrics could distract him from the dances.

They’re filing out of the auditorium post-bows and standing ovation. Sokka’s hands are stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. He remarks to Mai, “Our partners have a lot of chemistry on stage.” He chuckles. _Partners_. It’s a nice word, rolls off the tongue easily. “A _lot_.”

She snorts. “They fooled the outsiders for sure.”

Sokka shakes his head, mostly from disbelief. “That was…”

“Hot?”

Sokka nods jerkily. “Oh yeah.” Then he grabs onto her trench sleeve. In her other hand is a wrapped bouquet, a double dozen of pink roses. “And when Ty Lee just _jumped_ like that? And Zuko caught her, and, like, fucking swung her around? By the _arms_? And then later when he spun her in place, you know? While she was, like, squatting?” He motions an explosion with his fingers. “I’m just…” He breathes out, and suddenly they’re outside, where the sun has set. Mai’s guiding him by the elbow, presumably toward the west entrance. She knows the drill. Katara, Toph, Aang and Yue aren’t far behind. “Oh!” he exclaims loudly, loud enough to send a few crows flurrying from a tree nearby. “ _Obviously_. The coolest fucking part in the whole first song, when Zuko does his—his crazy thing on the floor. Fuck, I don’t even have the words to describe it. Need to expand my fucking b-boy vocabulary.”

Mai grins, the biggest Mai-smile of which he’s ever been on the receiving end.

Sokka shakes his head again, rubs fingers over his brow. “Wow.” He breathes in, out, deeply. “What do you call it when, like, only one part of the body moves, and the rest stays still?”

Mai gives him a calming pat to the top of his head, then folds her arms over her chest against the cold. “Isolation.”

Sokka accepts it without question. “Sick, bro.”

“These are for Zuko, right?”

Sokka squawks in surprise and Mai jolts. Sniffing the flowers in the crook of Mai’s arm is Ty Lee, now donning a pink tracksuit, though her eyes are still ringed in dark stage makeup.

“Goddamn,” Sokka breathes, sets his hands on his hips. “Someone—someone should put a cowbell on you.”

“I do own a collar, actually,” Ty Lee says, and she grins when Mai passes her the bouquet and gives her a kiss on the lips. “With little jingle bells. Festive!”

Sokka opens his arms for a hug, and he’s tempted to think there’s too much elation in Ty Lee’s eyes as she leaps onto him, but on second thought, it’s just the right amount. “You fucking killed it,” he laughs, and he stands there, smothered on one side by pink roses and on the other by Ty Lee’s fluffed-up braid, as others start to trickle out the west entrance not far ahead. Dancers from other teams, Azula, Suki, Zuko.

“Here come next year’s Bay Area Urban Dance _champions_!” Sokka hoots through a hand-megaphone, and as Ty Lee drops to the ground, she also shushes him with a finger to his lips.

“Don’t jinx it!” she implores, wide-eyed, then swivels to tuck herself into Mai’s arms.

“Of course Sokka would jinx it,” Suki sighs, shooting a fond eye-roll his way. Sokka lifts his arms in surrender, but he can only play at being funny for a bit, because Zuko’s now close enough that Sokka can see his _why are you like this_ look. The eyeliner enhances it, Sokka decides.

“There’s my boybander,” he croons, sashaying toward Zuko, whose mocking, abrupt U-turn would wound Sokka greatly if he weren't in such high spirits. Ha, _spirits_. He pastes himself to Zuko’s back, which is what he gets for turning away.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” mutters Zuko, but Sokka feels the weight of Zuko’s upper back sag into his own chest.

He grins with his chin on Zuko’s shoulder, who smells a little sweet—the subtle fragrance of makeup—and like sweat. Sokka breathes him in with what he hopes is subtlety. “You don’t have to _ask_. Just infer.” He links his arms over Zuko’s stomach. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in all my twenty-two years of being on this earth. If you’re not careful, the boyband recruiters will come for you and I’ll never see you again.”

“I can’t sing,” is Zuko’s lame argument.

“I still don’t believe that. We never did do karaoke. But you could totally _rap_.”

“Oh god.”

“Seriously, though.” Sokka’s arms slink off Zuko’s waist, if only to nudge him by the hip to turn him around. He just wants to see Zuko’s face. Sokka looks him in the eye. “No kidding, most amazing thing.”

With his hands in his windbreaker pockets, Zuko smiles at him, tight-lipped, and shrugs humbly. “I tried.”

Sokka snorts. “You sure? You made it look so easy. Even _I_ am convinced I can spin on my head now.”

Zuko’s eyes are shaded in the dark. His hand is pale where he pulls it from his pocket, fingers catching the outdoor lights of the theater, and he works his fingers into the back of Sokka’s loose hair, goes on his toes to kiss him on the forehead. “Please don’t.”

Sokka wants to melt. Instead, he blushes like he’s just had his first kiss, and keeps babbling, eyes on Zuko’s chest. “You also completely sold me on this outfit.” He unzips Zuko’s windbreaker, brushes his fingers against the sheer fabric underneath. They bump Zuko’s hard stomach as he shifts. “Like, dude, there’s no way I’d fit my gut into this, but I’d buy it just so I could ask you to wear it again—”

He’s ambushed mid-thought by Ty Lee, who leaps on his back. “Dinner’s on Sokka!” Her ear-to-ear grin is visible in his too-close periphery.

“What?” he yelps, and Aang approaches, smacks a hand down on Sokka’s bicep.

“I approve of this message,” Aang states, holding a thumbs-up in front of Sokka’s nose. “Also—” He snaps his fingers, taps Zuko in the chest. “— _killed_ it, dude.”

“I’m not buying KBBQ for ten!” He turns, feels Ty Lee’s legs swing as he does. “Whose idea was this? If I’m buying, we’re going to McDonald’s for the dollar menu.”

“Chill _out_.” Ty Lee sighs dramatically, sliding to the ground. “It was my idea. You had your whipped-for-Zuko face on.” She smiles at him prettily, tucks a pink rose behind his ear. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Sokka eyes her. Doesn’t acknowledge her description of his… facial expression. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who wears so much pink.”

At once, Ty Lee’s features scrunch up like a small pug. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)


	10. 10 - trouble is a friend

They’re cruising down I-880, beige, low-stooping buildings sandwiching the highway. The sky is colorless and clouded and matches the half-hearted chill in the cool, mid-fifties air. Something like Charlie Puth is playing on the public pop radio station, and it makes Sokka’s teeth grind together, but Zuko’s been tense since they left school. He can’t bring himself to take a hammer to the silence just to ask Zuko if he’s allowed to change the channel.

“So,” murmurs Sokka, tentatively lowering the volume on the radio, “how were your finals?”

“Um,” Zuko says, distracted as he switches lanes. “Fine.”

Sokka’s brows lift. “Great.” He drums his fingers on his knees, gives them a pat, sighs probably a bit too wistfully as he peers out the window. “Great, that’s good.” He feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks, which is almost true. Not that Zuko’s asking. Sokka’s poor CS 166 students had the unfortunate 7-10pm exam slot the evening prior, on the last day of finals, for which he’ll probably never stop being sorry. He could really just use a twenty-four hour nap, wonders how tonight’s dinner will go in his state of tired delirium. “What—” he begins, because their paltry excuse for a conversation isn’t going to fuel itself, and he still doesn’t know what classes Zuko’d taken—aside from _Your Brain On Drugs_ , of course. But Zuko cuts him short.

“I need to tell you something.”

Sokka sits up suddenly, grasping at shreds of intrigue. “You’re on a _roll_ with these ambiguous preludes lately,” he remarks, starting to grin.

Whatever determination had been in the set of Zuko’s brow falters. “What?”

“You know.” Sokka shrugs. “Few weeks ago, when you were all”—he clears his throat to prepare his shitty, breathy impression of Zuko—“ _can I ask you something?_ about taking me to see your dad.”

Zuko doesn’t look at him. Of course, the road is more important. But all he says is, “Right.”

“Mhm.” Sokka laces his fingers over his stomach. “Well, proceed.”

Zuko swallows. His fancy car doesn’t rumble steadily the way Sokka’s dad’s does back home, but careens down the road almost silently, like it’s hovering. “I’m not a business major,” he says. “Or pre-med.”

Sokka blinks. “Oh?”

“But my father thinks I’m pre-med.”

“ _Oh_.”

Zuko’s hands grip the wheel at ten and two o’clock. “It’s gonna sound stupid, but I’ve started to forget what I’m supposed to be studying.” He huffs a breath out his nose. “That’s why I, uh… misspoke. To your sister. I didn’t mean to.”

Sokka watches him, fingers wrapped around the handle on the door.

“So… if my father asks tonight, I’m still pre-med. Taking a gap year to study for the MCAT, which he won’t like, but it’s better than not taking it at all. And… this semester I took physiology and pharmacology classes. Which, uh, I didn’t, but. That’s what I’ll tell him, so.” Zuko grimaces. “Please don’t react like I never told you. Or like I only told you three hours earlier in the car.”

When Zuko seems to have wrapped up, Sokka looks out the windshield. “Well, goddamn.”

Zuko snorts. For a moment, his lips twitch at unformed words, but then he says, “Ask me whatever you want. I pretty much owe it to you, considering… uh. I didn’t _lie_ , but, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Lied by omission, I guess.” Then he frowns. “Or… I guess I did lie.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” Sokka chuckles. He rubs his chin, perplexed. “But I am curious.”

Zuko sighs. “Shoot.”

“What _are_ you majoring in?”

Zuko shakes his head. Sokka hates talking to Zuko’s profile while he’s driving, but he has a feeling Zuko wouldn’t hold eye contact if they were off-road anyway. “I don’t know,” he says flatly.

Sokka blinks. They’re both graduating in six months. Presumably. “Well, what classes have you been taking this whole time?”

Zuko leans back in his seat, which isn’t far, as it’s still pulled up pretty close to the wheel. “Fall of freshman year, I took chemistry and calc, you know. On-track for pre-med.” His lips purse. “Fucking failed out of them both. My brain just doesn’t work that way. I wasn’t even technically a full-time student, ‘cos I dropped them halfway through the semester and couldn’t pick up any other classes at that point. And since then…” Faintly, he shakes his head. “I’ve just taken whatever’s interesting. Dance and performance classes, mostly. Random shit. I’ve been avoiding the advising office for years now, and…” He snorts again. “School’s big enough that I can get away with it, apparently. I just didn’t want to think about it. About deciding. Makes me feel…” He trails off, sniffs. “So I didn’t. Still don’t.”

For a moment, Sokka doesn’t know what to say. After a pause, Zuko starts up again. “I know, most privileged crap you’ve heard in your whole life. Like, here I am, at a top-tier school for _whatever reason_ , somehow I fucking got in. Taking classes on Daddy’s money without any plan for a degree. Using up some deserving person’s spot, someone who’d probably have even the faintest idea of what they want to do with their life.” The crease at the center of Zuko’s brow ridge looks pained—Sokka sees it when Zuko glances in the rearview mirror. “I should’ve just dropped out freshman year when I knew I couldn’t become a fucking doctor. I mean, I knew before, but that should’ve been the last straw.” Sokka watches Zuko’s eyes as they flicker over the cars ahead of them. “It’s my father’s schtick, the whole _doctor, lawyer, or businessman_ expectation. And I could’ve never been a lawyer. I lose every fight I have with Azula.” His scowl makes Sokka’s lips pull into a smile unconsciously. “And… a _businessman_? The second someone asked me to _sell them this pen_ I’d probably just walk out.” Zuko looks in Sokka’s direction for a split second, or maybe just at his window. “Don’t ask me why _doctor_ seemed like the obvious route.”

Sokka’s eyes scan Zuko’s profile. He clears his throat, mostly in disbelief—disbelief at the negativity Zuko’s unleashing on him like a newly-active volcano, and at the weird, completely irrelevant thrill he derives from listening to Zuko talk for rare, extended stretches of time—and folds his arms over his chest. “Does anyone else know?”

“Mai and Ty Lee.” Zuko adjusts his fingers on the wheel. They sound like they stick to the leather with sweat. “Azula found out. Not because they told her. Just…” He sets his shoulders, and something cracks in his back. “Figured it out. She knows I wouldn’t survive in classes like that. But she doesn’t care. Actually, like… she thinks it’s great. A big, secret _fuck you_ to our father for everything he’s done. And it’s not like he needs the money.” He touches the front of his neck with shaky fingers, puts his hand back on the wheel. “But it’s easy enough to keep secret. I don’t talk to anyone else about my major. At least… not in depth.”

“Right, right,” Sokka says on a sigh, then finds himself laughing suddenly. It surprises him, the way it bubbles out, but Zuko doesn’t flinch. “Sorry—right, where were we? So... that time I called you out for never studying?”

Zuko shrugs. “I don’t _not_ study. It’s just… the theater classes that aren’t, like, getting onstage and _doing the thing_ are just memorization. And so are classes like the one I took with Aang. Read, memorize, regurgitate. I can do that.”

“Huh.” Sokka sucks his lower lip into his mouth, lets it go. “Is that why it’s so easy for you to memorize dance routines?”

“That’s muscle memory. It’s different from, like, remembering facts.”

“Okay.” Sokka frowns in thought, then reaches out to tap his forefinger to Zuko’s temple. “Guess you just have a big brain.”

Zuko scoffs, shies away from the contact. “You’re one to talk.”

Sokka hums happily, sets his rejected hand on the back of Zuko’s seat. “Guess I am.”

Zuko just shakes his head. On the radio, an ad plays for Carl’s Jr. Abruptly, Zuko stutters, “Don’t you—aren’t you gonna tell me I’m hopeless? Or that I’ve wasted my college experience fucking around?”

Sokka yawns around his response. “Why the hell would I do that?” He drums his fingers on Zuko’s seat, looks at him with a faint smile. “Look, if you call taking the classes you want to take and playing to your strengths _fucking around_ , then a lot of other people at our school are also _fucking around_. Hell, I met this girl last semester when I myself tried to _fuck around_ and take elementary Spanish, and she…” He chuckles. “She was an _Interdisciplinary Studies_ major. You know, whatever, like, build-your-own-major. The way she described it, she was studying _eco-art-history-feminism_ —her words, not mine—and writing her senior thesis on the environmental politics of Marvel movies. Which, like, weird, but kind of awesome. So, y’know. I believe in you, baby. You’ll figure things out.”

Zuko’s features are puckered up, like he’s trying to read some minuscule words written on the horizon. “What—”

“If it’s sage advice you’re looking for, then I’d say, like, go to advising when we get back to school. I’m sure it scares you at this point, but I’ll go with you if you need moral support. Like, either you’ll graduate this semester with _some_ degree, or they’ll make you leave without one because of some credit limit, or you’ll just keep going. Nothing wrong with any of those. And I don’t know your dad, but if Azula hates him, then strangely enough, I do, too, so. Fuck his expectations. Fuck _any_ parental expectations _ever_.”

Zuko’s lips fold into a thin line. Sokka hears the first few seconds of an Ariana Grande song before he impulsively changes the radio channel.

“I’m glad you told me, though.” He settles his hand back on Zuko’s seat. “Even if it’s because it’s necessary for our… arrangement.” He cringes at himself. _Arrangement_ makes it sound like he’s soliciting services from Zuko. “But now I won’t be confused when your dad asks about chemistry at the dinner table and the closest thing to a beaker I’ve seen you touch is Aang’s bong.”

Zuko’s lips part, but he just sort of gazes at the road, eyes narrowed.

“You can laugh, it’s okay. I’m funny.” Sokka grins.

“Shut up,” Zuko breathes, and he does chuckle that time. It makes Sokka’s heart sing.

“You haven’t given me instructions for your dad’s yet.”

They’re walled in by evergreens on both sides, just outside Santa Cruz.

“Oh.” Zuko brushes his hair from his eyes. “That.”

Sokka sits with his back to the window, one socked foot on the seat, his other leg jammed awkwardly into the legroom. He’s unconsciously decided it’s staring-at-Zuko-driving hours, which he’d probably do even if his seating position didn’t directly enable him.

“I told Jennie—that’s, um, my father’s girlfriend, if you remember—I told her I’m bringing my boyfriend,” Zuko says. “So… she knows you’re coming, which most likely means my father knows, and isn’t happy about it. Anyway, about her—Jennie—she’s… she’s not that much older than us. I think she’s twenty-seven. So…” Zuko’s eyes are shifty as they glance vaguely over Sokka.

“I wasn’t gonna hit on your dad’s girlfriend.” Sokka pinches Zuko’s shoulder. “Anyway, I only have eyes for you, baby,” he simpers, lips pouted. Zuko merely scoffs, fleetingly eyes his own shoulder.

“I don’t have any instructions,” he mutters, “other than to pretend I’m pre-med.”

Sokka snorts. “So you won’t tell your dad you’re not gonna be a doctor, but you _will_ introduce him to your fake boyfriend?”

“One step at a time.”

Sokka hums. “Alright.”

“I guess, just… act like you like me. Please.” Zuko shifts in his seat. There’s a flustered quality to his voice. “I don’t know if there’d be anything more embarrassing than introducing your homophobic father to your boyfriend only for him to realize we’re not _actually_ together and I haven’t _actually_ found a boyfriend.”

Sokka laughs lightly. _Ah, funny._ He picks at his thumbnail. “Easy enough.”

“This is gonna sound stupid,” Zuko prefaces. “But… just be yourself. I feel like… you’re the type that parents like.”

Sokka’s brows lift. “And what type is that?” he asks, and it comes out less greasy-and-jocular than just plain old curious.

“Shut up, just.” Zuko sighs, as if Sokka’s already ridiculed him. “You’re book-smart, attractive. Street-smart, too, I guess. You have a good sense of humor. You’re trustworthy. You’re in a lucrative field. You just… _show promise_. I don’t know.” His features fall into their default frown.

It’s not that Sokka doesn’t enjoy being complimented. No, he… definitely likes that. But inexplicably, he’s struggling to take this in casual stride. Eyes round, he goes for, “You paint a very pretty picture of me,” and laces his fingers behind his head. “Wanna write my CV?”

They reach an intersection, and Zuko starts to slow down way before they hit the stoplight. He’s a master of picking and choosing which of Sokka’s questions he’ll respond to, and this is not one of them. “You don’t have to sabotage the dinner, or anything,” he murmurs. “Like, _yeah_ , we’re fucking with my father, but only ‘cos he’ll think I landed someone like you.”

“ _Someone like me_ , okay.” Sokka shifts to sit upright when the heat in his face becomes too much. “Maybe I look great on paper, but—no, that’s not even true. My GPA’s kind of crap. I’m doing teaching stuff all the time so I don’t study as much as I should, and I take shit like English and Spanish to _sophisticate_ myself but then I end up halfway through _Mrs Dalloway_ and realize I can’t possibly hate myself enough to finish it. So I don’t.”

Zuko coughs out a laugh. “Fine, that’s _one_ thing—”

“And I’m annoying!”

Zuko blinks. “What?”

“You call me annoying all the time.” Sokka prods accusingly at his shoulder.

“What—? I mean…” Zuko seems to mull it over. “You annoy the shit out of me sometimes. But you’re not _annoying_.”

Sokka’s jaw creaks open like a poorly-oiled mailbox door. He says—nothing. Then he squawks, “And I’m not out of your league!” like he needs to refute his own irksomeness. “You’re—okay, I don’t think about dudes that— _that_ often, but you’re, you know, actually _sexy_ , and, like.” He’s flapping his hands like he’s Katara trying to convince some dude from their high school’s _Young Republicans Club_ of the absurdity of late-stage capitalism. And now that he’s started, he can’t stop, even if it would be for the best. And it really would.

“I’ve _never_ seen anyone move their body the way you do,” Sokka spews. “And I’ve, you know, borne witness to my fair share of b-boys, like—those people who hijack the subway cars on BART, and a few times near the boardwalk at Venice Beach—but I _genuinely_ couldn’t speak, you know, the first time I saw you at practice. Ask Mai. Actually, don’t. She’ll give too many details. And you call everyone around you smart but yourself, but, _Zuko_! That’s your impostor syndrome speaking! I’d just tell it to shut up myself, but it doesn’t work like that. Anyway, Aang claims he can only make friends with people he can have _philosophical conversations_ with—me clearly being an exception, to, like, _that rule_ —because at his core he _is_ just a somewhat-pretentious philosophy student! So, like, if your brain can handle abstraction enough to be on Aang’s wavelength, that’s already next-level.”

Finally, Sokka lowers his hands. He realizes he’s sweating a bit, that the underarms of his t-shirt are damp.

Zuko drives. Rubs a fingertip over the inner corner of his right eye. “Maybe we shouldn’t compliment each other,” he mumbles.

Sokka turns off the heat that’s blowing on his seat.

“You were yelling,” adds Zuko.

Sokka’s eyes flicker to him. He’s smiling in his Zuko-way; shadowy, inconspicuous. “I was, wasn’t I?” Sokka says.

“Yeah.”

Sokka cracks a grin. Then he wheezes in laughter, tipping his head back onto the headrest. “Heat of the moment, I guess.” He rubs a hand over his face, peers out the window. “Okay, I’ll never compliment you again.”

“Thank you.”

Sokka settles his hand again on Zuko’s seat, digs his fingertips into that pointy bone at the end of Zuko’s clavicle. He’s flushed all over, Sokka is. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How much longer?”

“About an hour.”

They’d only left in the late afternoon—Sokka and Aang and the other CS 166 TAs had toiled the morning away grading final exams—so the sun is already setting when Zuko’s car winds down a quiet, narrow road lush on both sides with plant life and the occasional mailbox or massive garden indicating signs of residence. Then Zuko takes a slight left, and Sokka scrambles to full height, hands slipping against the leather of the seat.

“That’s a gate,” he says. A rich-person, don’t-trespass-on-my-estate kind of gate.

“Yeah.” Zuko slows in front of it. There looks to be a button on the yellow wall on Zuko’s side, crawling with vines and backing onto thick privacy hedges, but Zuko just pounds a few times on his car horn. Surely enough, after a few seconds’ delay, the gates open up for them mechanically.

Daylight may be fading, but Sokka can still see through the windshield. “Why does this look like an Italian villa?”

Zuko snorts.

Sokka shifts in his seat, peering out the sides of the car. “Mai said she lived next door, but what does that even _mean_ here? All I see are trees. Neighbors are just a concept.”

Zuko parks the car, opens the door, and Sokka feels blinded by the motion-sensing outdoor lights that suddenly flicker on. “Come on.”

Sokka unbuckles his seatbelt, but he can’t stop gawking. “No, seriously. This is, like, some _Michael Corleone in Italy_ shit. Are the cameras rolling? Hold up, I need to save my wife or she’ll explode in a car-bomb any second now.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying.” Zuko takes Sokka by the hand once he’s clambered from the car. “Just leave your stuff.”

“ _Oh_ ,” breathes Sokka as he slots his fingers between Zuko’s, “do you have a butler? Is he gonna bring our shit inside? I’m picturing… Niles from _The Nanny_.”

“No, god. You need to watch less TV.” Zuko turns toward the house. “We can get it later.” He inhales and exhales deeply. Sokka watches, wonders if he should steel himself the way Zuko clearly is. “Okay.” He leads Sokka up the front walk, which doesn’t actually go around the front, but sneaks privately between the three-car garage and the main house. _God forbid one is seen entering one’s own house_. The green hedges are neatly trimmed and on one side, a line of big, arched windows looks into a lowly-lit, sleekly-decorated house.

Zuko knocks on the door. Beside him, Sokka sucks in a breath that puffs up his chest. “I’m nervous,” he hisses suddenly. The door opens at the very same moment that Zuko looks toward him.

Silhouetted by warm indoor light, between the doorframe and the door is a petite, pretty woman with a doll-like face. “Hi, you two!” She grins, pulls the door open wide. “Come in, come in! You must be Sokka! I’m Jennie, hopefully Zuko’s told you.” The moment Sokka’s foot is over the doorjamb, she takes his free hand with both of her own, squeezing tightly. The foyer—if he could even call it that—is high-ceilinged and sprawling, marble floors underfoot, but Jennie stands very close, giggles as she looks from Sokka to Zuko with wide eyes. “I need Azula to come visit so I’m not the only short one.” She lets Sokka’s hand go smilingly and touches Zuko’s elbow, shaking her head in awe. “You’re really a whole-ass man now!”

Sokka’s eyes flicker to Zuko. A smirk threatens to pull at his lips.

“Shoes off,” says Jennie, waving at their feet. Then she pads off in her retro shift dress, barefooted and pink-toenailed, past an airy, avant-garde living room, tall windows framed with billowing, sheer curtains. “Do you guys want wine? Red or white? Sokka, are you of age? It’s okay if you’re not, I don’t know why I’m asking.”

Sokka detangles his fingers from Zuko’s, kneels to untie his own shoes, and before Zuko can do it himself, the laces on Zuko’s heavy boots. “Seems nice,” he whispers, and Zuko smiles down at him, tight-lipped.

Sokka follows Zuko in the direction Jennie had gone, and she nearly crashes into them coming back around the corner with a glass of red wine in each hand. “Woops!” she yelps, then offers the glasses promptly. “Your dad’s just up in his office. He’ll be down when dinner’s ready. Speaking of…” She grimaces apologetically, her little hands curling into hugging fists. She meets Sokka’s eyes. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Sokka coughs on his first sip of wine. “Me? Oh, no. No, no. I assure you, I am extremely carnivorous.”

Jennie brightens. “Well, you never know. I feel like half my friends are vegan nowadays.”

“Tell me about it.” Sokka smiles wryly, first at Jennie, then at Zuko, whose eyes roll. Jennie leads them to the kitchen, which is, again, like something off of HGTV, and not those shows where they decorate on a budget.

“Since it’s a special night—you both just finished your second-to-last semester, didn’t you?—I made jajangmyeon.” She skitters over to the stove, stirs at a thick sauce simmering away in a large pan. The smell is rich, and Sokka wants to drool, whereas Zuko looks like he’d rather just leave. “Have you ever had it, Sokka?” She takes the top off a pot of boiling water, drops in a bundle of ready-made noodles.

Sokka wanders closer, hands in his pockets. “Nope, but I have this new, distinct feeling I’ve been missing out.”

From the corner of Sokka’s eyes, he sees Zuko’s eyes narrow. But Jennie laughs in delight. “Just a few minutes, I promise!”

Sokka helps Jennie do the last of the table-setting, makes friendly chitchat about her life. Zuko idles with his weight against the kitchen counter, looking rather like he’d brave crawling all the way back to school to avoid standing in his dad’s kitchen. Sokka doesn’t press him to keep the conversation going, though. He takes it upon himself to assume it’s part of why he’s here: to fill the silence. He finds out that Jennie’s a backing vocalist, nods along in interest as she lists the records of singers whose tracks she’s appeared on—he recognizes zilch—and recounts how she met Zuko’s dad, or, as she refers to him, _Ozai_ —which Sokka decides is an aptly terrifying name for a man he’s never met whose own children seem to avoid him at all costs—when she was living in LA and he was down there on business. _What kind of business_ , Sokka doesn’t ask, because he’s meant to be a good boyfriend, and presumably, good boyfriends know what their partners’ dads do.

Internally, Sokka rolls his eyes at himself. It’d only been a few hours earlier that he figured out Zuko’s own field of study—or lack thereof. He might be setting the bar too high for himself.

Sokka’s laying down a napkin—a thick, expensive Pottery Barn-type one hugged by a fancy napkin ring—when the air in the dining room seems to turn charged. From the corner of his eye, he sees Zuko drift closer to him, and he follows Jennie’s gaze to the kitchen, where Zuko’s dad has emerged, looking every bit like he’s just arrived home from a day at the office, and not like he’d been evasively sitting upstairs on a Saturday—which, now that Sokka really thinks about it, _rude_. He’s barefooted but in black slacks and a silky button-down, cropped jet-black hair styled neatly. It’s one of those douchebag haircuts, similar to Sokka’s own, freshly buzzed on the sides but almost wet in appearance, slicked straight back to stay in place (the latter being the douchebag component). And there’s something harsh about his gaze—maybe intensified by the sharp planes of his face—though his eyes are amber like Zuko’s.

Sokka gulps.

“Took you long enough,” mutters Jennie, but it’s weirdly fond and nearly makes Sokka gag, which is a pity because he’s actually excited for those noodles and doesn’t need his stomach twisting right now.

“Sorry about that,” says Ozai, and his voice is deep, rumbling. “I had a call—those folks at startups, they don’t know what ‘business hours’ are.”

Sokka’s eyes flicker to Zuko, who’s cupping his own elbows, already watching Sokka. Sokka can’t read his eyes, he’s unsure he’ll ever be able to, but he straightens the rolled-up napkin and strides over to Ozai, hand proffered. “Mr. Zuko’s dad,” he greets genially. “Sokka. That’s S-O-K-K-A.”

Ozai looks strikingly like Azula as he glances at Sokka’s hand. Unlike Azula, at least, he gives Sokka’s hand a firm grip, a good shake. “So I’ve heard.”

“Zuko’s boyfriend,” Sokka adds. For good measure.

There’s an amused twist to Ozai’s lips as he lets Sokka’s hand go. “Zuko.” He nods at his son passively, then claps his hands together. “Let’s eat.”

There’s a steaming pile of noodles drenched in black bean sauce in Sokka’s bowl. He’s always been clumsy with chopsticks, but that doesn’t hinder him from going to town on his dinner.

The dining table is long enough to fit sixteen, maybe, but they’re bunched up at one end—Ozai at the head of the table, Jennie on one side, Sokka and Zuko on the other. Presumptuously, Sokka had plopped down in the spot closer to Zuko’s father. It’s where the serving size had been larger, anyhow.

Sokka has a mouthful of noodles when Jennie asks, tapping her chopsticks together and grinning, “ _So_. Obviously, you have to tell us how you met.”

Sokka, with said mouthful, glances Zuko’s way. Zuko takes a measured breath, smooths out the napkin in his lap. “Mutual… mutual friends,” he murmurs.

“Was it love at first sight?” Jennie smirks.

“That’s an inappropriate question, Jennie,” says Ozai, and she rolls her eyes.

By then, Sokka’s finally swallowed. “Must’ve been,” he says, peering at Zuko. “We got together pretty fast.” When Zuko’s lips start to show the first signs of a flustered smile, eyes cast downward, Sokka breaks into laughter. “Jokes. It was all me, I got too excited.”

Jennie _aww_ s and Zuko rubs at one of his eyes, clearly embarrassed, but Sokka’s fucking pleased. And he’s playing the role of _the_ _type that parents like_ , so he presses Ozai on his work— _venture capitalist_. _Of course,_ he doesn’t say, and he also doesn’t laugh. Sokka hasn’t heard of any of his investments—again, he nods along courteously—until Ozai name-drops the company Sokka’d interned for two summers earlier.

With Azula.

“Hey, I worked there!” He grins, has to hold himself back from pointing an enthusiastic finger straight at Ozai’s nose. “Or interned, I guess, a few years ago. I also had the pleasure of meeting your daughter there. Got my ass handed to me, of course. By her, I mean. She’s hardcore. But, anyway, good on you for investing. I needed that paycheck.”

Jennie is delighted by the coincidence, but Ozai is immovable, hums respectfully. Or… Sokka hopes it’s respectful. Maybe just put-on. “You were working on…”

“Software.” Sokka nods quickly, goes to gather another bunch of noodles between his chopsticks. He starts again when his mouth is still half-full, “Yeah, that was a good time. It was my first internship, too, so. Azula was so cutthroat I felt like I could handle anything after those twelve weeks.” He chuckles. “Made this past summer feel like a breeze. I was at a different company, though. Sato AI.”

Ozai watches Sokka. He’s barely taken a bite of his meal, but drained his glass already. Sokka shifts in his seat, emanating every _I’m just an easygoing dude_ vibe he can muster up. Zuko clears his throat and says, “Sokka teaches, too.” For a beat, they lock eyes. “A class. At school. Not that I could tell you what it’s all about.”

Sokka feels a realer smile pull at his lips. He hums his agreement, but he’s distractedly watching Zuko pluck a hunk of pork from his noodles. “I TA an operating systems class, yeah. But I’ve also taught the intro to programming class, and computer graphics, uh… yeah. Pays the tuition, which I need. I’m out-of-state, so, you know. That shit’s steep.” He shrugs. “And it’s fun. Teaching, I mean.”

Jennie’s smiling, eyes bright, like she’s about to speak, when Ozai says smoothly, “Out-of-state, you say. Where are you from?”

“Oh.” Sokka sits up. There’s nothing left in his bowl to pick at, anyhow. “The Seattle area, I guess. That’s where my family home is now. But I was born in Canada! Yeah. Nunavik. In its capital. A village called Kuujjuaq—I say village, which makes it sound tiny, but it’s the biggest of the Inuit villages in Nunavik, actually.” He nods knowingly, lips pursed. “Yep. But we moved stateside when I was eleven.”

Ozai’s eyes twinkle, and gives Sokka an unusual psychosomatic ache all over. “I—”

“I don’t know if you were big into ballroom in your youth, Ozai, or maybe you were more a tap dance kinda guy, but, you know, I can’t just sit here and not mention what a shame it is you guys had to miss out on the winter dance showcase a couple weeks back,” blurts Sokka. He scoots his chair closer to the table. “I mean, pardon my French, but holy _fuck_ , I’m a layman when it comes to _anything_ dance and Zuko just.” He shakes his head, smooths a few stray hairs back from his forehead. “Blew me out of the water. Like, there’s so much that goes into it, you know? So much beyond, just, _doing the moves_. Like… musicality. _Acting_ , even, in the facial expressions. Passion, too. Definitely that.”

Ozai’s fingers tense on his chopsticks. And it isn’t just that Sokka’s weary of talking about himself—he could go on, sure, _easily_ —but he knows it’s been a long, long time since Zuko was last home, so why won’t his father just fucking ask after him?

“It _is_ a shame,” says Jennie, elbow perched on her chair’s armrest, chin in hand. Sokka understands that this was probably as Zuko intended, _not_ having them know about the showcase, but at the same time, Sokka appreciates that Jennie sounds genuine about it, unaffected by Zuko’s father shooting lasers through Sokka’s temple. “I’ve only ever seen videos, but even that’s enough to know that Zuko’s very talented.” She smiles, sits up, tucks her hands into her lap. Her eyes are sparkly under the chandelier, maybe sympathetic. “Better than a lot of the dancers I’ve been on stage with, when I’m singing backup.” For a moment, Jennie presses her lips together tightly, but Ozai doesn’t fill the silence. So she smiles again. “But I’m glad to hear your show went well!”

“It was fine,” says Zuko, looking toward the unoccupied end of the table.

Sokka snorts. “Baby, I think _fine_ is an un—”

“Anyway, it was always Mother who thought things I liked were worth pursuing.” Zuko’s voice is monotone. “Don’t bother trying to bring up the trifles of dance with him, Sokka.” He sighs, deep out his nose. His bowl is still half-full. Sokka’s never asked after Zuko’s mother, and Zuko’s never brought her up. He supposes it goes both ways, that silence on the mother front. There’s many a thing he and Zuko don’t talk about.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly pleasant dinner, son.” Ozai’s tone is chilling. And while Zuko stares into the dark red of the wine in his glass, Sokka turns a brazen gaze on him, toward the throne at the head of the table. “You came all this way.”

Sokka knows next to nothing about Zuko’s father. But watching him—the steadfast, unwelcoming tilt to his brow, elegant fingers wrapping a stemless wine glass, silk shirt reflecting the chandelier’s glow in a soft sheen—Sokka begins to feel he doesn’t wish to know him. Sokka clears his throat, but for once, his mind is drawing a blank.

“We did come all this way.” Zuko lifts his eyes under heavy, dull eyelids. “Thank you for inviting us, Jennie.”

“Of course,” says Jennie, quiet, with a worried purse to her doll lips.

“Zuko, you never did give me academic access to your student portal,” Ozai muses. He swirls the dregs of wine left in his glass. “Only financial.” He chuckles a bit, and Sokka’s brow pulls tight. “So I can’t take a look at your grades. But I’m assuming you’re on track, that things are going well.”

“Things are fine,” Zuko breathes, then pushes his chair away from the table. “Thanks for dinner, Jennie. I’m just not very hungry right now.” And he strides from the room, leaves his glass and bowl in the kitchen.

For a moment, Sokka is wide-eyed. He doesn’t do them the courtesy of clearing his spot at the table or making any grateful formalities, though, because he jumps up and jogs after Zuko, the beats of his socked feet drowned by the hard marble underneath.

Zuko’s in the foyer, heading for the foot of the stairs, when Sokka catches him by the arm. “Hey,” he says on an exhale. He’s not sure why he’s so shocked when Zuko looks him straight in the eye.

“Sorry. I made that way too dramatic. Ditching you, and whatever.” Zuko rolls his eyes slightly, rubs at them. “I don’t… I’m wondering why the fuck I thought this was a good idea in the first place.”

“Hey,” huffs Sokka again. His fingers trail down to Zuko’s elbow, where they hover, not quite clutching but still holding on. “Too late to think about that now. Just.” He moves closer to Zuko, glances over his shoulder toward the corner concealing the kitchen. “You wanna leave?”

Faintly, Zuko shakes his head. “We can spend the night.” For the moment he spends staring at Sokka’s chest, Sokka becomes highly aware of his own breathing. Then Zuko snorts, lifts his eyes to peer through his eyelashes. “It’s just like old times, me storming off to my room. I’ll have to slam the door shut if I really want to steal the show.”

Sokka breathes in, all the way to the pits of his lungs, wants to smile but just finds himself saying, “I’m sorry, I feel like I brought it—brought it all to a head. I know it wasn’t in the script, I just wanted to talk about—”

“There was no script.”

There’s no physical way to make the yawning space of the foyer, its big windows and twelve-foot ceilings feel intimate, but when Sokka looks again at Zuko’s eyes, he feels like he’s surrounded closely by thick, velvet drapes.

Tinged with gold, of course.

Zuko’s smile is small, but it drops as he digs around in his pocket, produces his car keys. “I just need to—”

“I’ll do it.” Sokka takes his keys, twirls them around his finger. “You need anything other than your bag?”

Zuko shakes his head. And, most unexpectedly, he pinches the middle of Sokka’s cheek, just a gentle tug, again with the ghost of a smile as he shuffles backward toward the stairs. “Just come upstairs when you’re done.”

Sokka lifts an eyebrow, feels like a buffoon when he grins for no reason. “I’ll yell if I get lost.”

“Of course you will.” Zuko turns his back, skims his fingers along the handrail.

It’s when Sokka’s halfway out the door, jamming his toes into his shoes, that Jennie appears. He spots her from the corner of his eye as she comes around the corner, padding tentatively but speedily toward him on the balls of her feet. “Are you leaving already?” she breathes, thick with concern. She peeks past him, as if she’s expecting to see Zuko already on his way out.

Warily, Sokka smiles, jingles the car keys. “Nah, just—just getting our stuff.”

“Okay.” Jennie nods jerkily, settles onto the flats of her feet. Sokka doesn’t dip yet, though, as for a second, her eyes are faraway, like she’s working through her thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she says then, voice lower, softer. Her doll face is breakable, like porcelain. “I shouldn’t have… maybe I shouldn’t have suggested this. I just think it’s such a shame Ozai has such great kids and he never sees them. But he doesn’t…” She shrugs her narrow shoulders, entwines her fingers tightly in front of her body. “I shouldn’t force it. There’s history I wasn’t here for that no one talks about. That I don’t know about.”

Sokka feels vaguely like he doesn’t deserve to be this confidant-middleman, that he’s been around less than four months and he and Zuko just don’t… _dig deep_. They cuddle—for show, sometimes not—and sometimes make out when Sokka works up the guts to make the first move and otherwise mostly lay together in Sokka’s bed. Is he _allowed_ to feel responsible for Zuko’s happiness? Does Zuko trust him with the weird and the bad and the uncomfortable and the unspeakable?

Sokka’s whirring mind answers: _inconclusive_.

“You and me both,” he mumbles as he scratches the back of his neck, peers at the arrangement of geometric mirrors by the foyer door.

“You don’t have to be my carrier pigeon,” Jennie says, apologetic with a self-deprecating smile. “But if Zuko asks, I _am_ sorry. Not that it means much.”

Sokka’s nod is a slight tip of his chin. “Yeah, okay.”

Jennie sighs, shoulders drooping. Then her eyes go wide, and she gets on the balls of her feet again. “Oh! Um… I made flourless chocolate cake,” she bites her lip, and it goes white under her teeth, “which I’d, um… hate to go to waste. I have… _doubts_ that we’ll congregate again for dessert.”

For a breath, Sokka just blinks. Then he chuckles, brushes his knuckles against his chin. “I’ll take some fucking cake, yeah.”

Sokka has his own backpack dangling from his right shoulder, the handle of Zuko’s duffle in his right hand, and a massive plate in his left, topped by a dainty fork and what looks like a hulking quarter of Jennie’s flourless chocolate cake. He’s made it up the stairs, and through the big, second-story windows, the evening sky is blue-black, looking like dripping midnight though it can’t be eight yet. The house has a distant but noticeable ocean view, too, which Sokka had only just discovered, standing in Ozai’s driveway and looking out toward the gates and the cliffs beyond.

“Zuko?” He schleps down the hall, socks gliding on marble. There’s a myriad of doors and Sokka’s hands are full—naturally, the Italian villa wouldn’t skimp on bedroom count—but there’s no way he’s risking losing his cake to battle with a closed one.

One door halfway down the hall is ajar, and its noisy creak is not at all befitting of the clean, sleek, new edges of the rest of the house as Sokka bumps his shoulder against it, peers in. The walls are a milky cream and the low lighting is warm, and when Sokka feels a gust of that night wind tickle his face and chest, he looks toward the source; double doors thrown open to a wide balcony overlooking that ocean view. Though the night is black and Zuko’s clothes are, too, as always, his skin peeks out in enough places that Sokka can make out that he’s slumped against the railing, perhaps with his chin on his hands.

He moves inside carefully, lays down his haul and sets the cake plate safely on the nightstand beside a four-poster bed. If Zuko’s _here_ , this must be his bedroom, though it looks more the way Sokka would imagine a hotel room at an all-inclusive resort in Cancun to look. He closes the door. Locks it, for good measure, because fuck Ozai. Zuko doesn’t flinch.

Sokka saunters toward the balcony. It’s oddly picturesque, the way the translucent, white curtains on the doors ripple in that chilly wind. He takes a deep breath, half to steel himself— _for what?_ —and half so Zuko knows he’s close before he brackets Zuko from behind with his arms, curling his fingers into the thick, cold stone of the balcony railing. “I gotta say,” he murmurs, eyes dancing tentatively to Zuko’s profile, “I was kind of hoping for a race car bed, or a shelf of middle school spelling bee trophies.”

Zuko’s eyes flit in his direction, but he doesn’t _look_ at Sokka. “I’m bad at spelling,” he says, quiet and a little raspy.

Sokka chuckles, just a soft breath, drums his fingers on the railing.

“I know what you mean, though.” Zuko rolls back his shoulders—popping and crackling here and there—and when he’s relaxed, his flank presses more firmly into Sokka’s arm. “Could perform surgery in there.” He nods vaguely to the bedroom. “That was a bad joke,” he decides a second later. “Clearly I won’t have a medical degree any time in this life.”

“Thank fuck,” mutters Sokka.

Zuko’s lips tug upward.

He twists in Sokka’s arms, glues his lower back to the railing and his feet to the ground astride Sokka’s. With a beat of hesitation that Sokka doesn’t miss, he presses his hands to Sokka’s shoulders, strikingly warm, slides them down to his chest. And Sokka watches his eyes, veins like live wires, an unidentifiable thrumming somewhere deep in his core, a source of energy making itself known, perhaps for the first time.

What Zuko does is press his forehead to Sokka’s shoulder, breathe in and out deep enough for Sokka to feel his ribs expand between his arms—he’s inched his hands closer together on the railing, rolled his weight into the balls of his feet so the space between him and Zuko is as subtly small as he can make it. Zuko’s cologne is faint from hours of sitting in a car but it makes Sokka dizzy, especially when Zuko huffs into his shoulder something like, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Sokka almost hugs him, then, clutches the living daylights out of his body, but Zuko straightens before he can, _slow_ , runs the cold tip of his nose—the polar opposite of his burning hands—up the side of Sokka’s neck, jaw, cheek, and finally kisses him on the mouth, warm and heavy but short.

Zuko’s fingers tickle at the buzzed hair at the base of Sokka’s skull, and when he pulls back with eyes awake and alert, there is undoubtedly a question in them, Sokka _swears_ it, swears he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

So when Sokka smiles—he can’t pin the emotion behind it, can’t find a fucking word to encapsulate it—Zuko takes hold of his shoulders again, goes to hoist himself onto the stone railing and lock Sokka between his knees, but Sokka’s reflexes are faster.

“What the fuck, don’t _die_ ,” is what Sokka bellows as he hooks his arms behind Zuko’s back, lugs him along for those few, frantic backward steps he takes toward the bedroom. They stumble over the threshold—Sokka doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head, and Zuko’s not expecting to suddenly put weight on his feet.

Safely clear of the balcony’s edge, Sokka stares out at the night, eyes blown wide, an armful of Zuko. And Zuko—he laughs into Sokka’s shoulder and regains his footing, nails digging crescents into the skin beneath Sokka’s shirt.

“You’re breathing so heavily,” Zuko jeers.

“Yeah, well, you just tried to make out with me on the edge of your second-story balcony,” Sokka argues, feels his heart rate begin to plateau again. His palms run up Zuko’s back, over planes of muscle, and if the thin material of Zuko’s shirt bunches up under his hands, that’s his business. “And to be fair, the yard kind of slopes down toward the road, so it might even be higher.”

The back collar of Sokka’s shirt digs into his skin suddenly. It’s because Zuko pulls the front taut between his long fingers, sighs as he looks Sokka in the eye, head slightly cocked. Enunciating his every word, he says, just barely above a whisper, “I wasn’t. Going. To fall.”

Sokka blinks, has to fight a smile as he looks from one of Zuko’s eyes to the other. And he realizes, up close, that Zuko’s left eye, skin faintly knotted and pink, has a monolid, and his right a double. For a moment, he forgets they’re play-arguing, if that, forgets how to have thoughts at all that aren’t _can you just stand there while I look at you?_ “I just… like you better on solid ground,” he murmurs, has to wonder for a second if it comes out at all intelligible. Then, painstakingly slowly, he slides a hand off Zuko’s ribs, presses his forefinger lightly to Zuko’s lips. “Now, you should know that wasn’t a challenge to do your trickiest one-handed b-boy move.”

Sokka’s unsure whether it’s him or Zuko swaying closer—possibly him, if Zuko’s putting any weight into that grip on his shirt collar. His lips are featherlight against Sokka’s fingertip. “I wasn’t going to do that, either.” He huffs, tips his chin up a millimeter. “It’s just your brain that works that way.”

“Huh,” muses Sokka, thoughtful.

Zuko half-smiles as he nods. He inhales through parted lips, drops his eyes shut.

And Sokka traces his fingertip down Zuko’s cupid’s bow, the hill of his lower lip. As Zuko breathes, the air out his nose tickles Sokka’s wrist. Sokka finds himself biting his lip unconsciously, crooking his fingers under Zuko’s chin, pressing his thumb first against the wet inner of Zuko’s bottom lip, then gently against the row of teeth behind it. Not of his own doing, Zuko’s jaw hinges lower, and Sokka feels and sees the pad of his thumb press to the flat of Zuko’s tongue.

Sokka swallows—or gulps, rather, by the sound of it. Zuko hears. He must, because there’s a soft suction on Sokka’s thumb as he smiles, opens his eyes like he knows what they do to Sokka, catlike in their golden hue.

So Sokka fleetingly neglects all his beliefs when he breathes, “ _God_ ,” and takes Zuko’s jaw in both hands, wet thumb slipping across his cheek as he kisses him, licks into his mouth hot and fast. It’s been a long time—long in Sokka’s book—since they’ve done this, _truly_ done this. More than a month, maybe. And whatever dam Sokka’d built up in that time deteriorates, goes to shambles, like it’s dissolving in the water it’s meant to hold back.

Zuko’s tongue curls into his, his arms now solid around Sokka’s neck, and it’s when Sokka hears, _tastes_ that noise Zuko probably wishes he hadn’t made that he lets go of Zuko’s face to hook his hands behind his thighs, hoist him up from the cold marble floor. Zuko takes the hint, surprisingly pliant, wraps his legs around Sokka’s hips, and Sokka’s dizzied, reveling under the weight of him, as Zuko separates their lips, mumbles, “Um,” through a pant. And Sokka peers up at him, heart lurching in its every rapid beat, watches from so close as he utters, “Can we close the doors? It’s cold.”

Sokka laughs, because _yes, we can_. We, as in him, because he walks Zuko to his bed, deposits him on its edge and peels away from his arms to go shut out the night. The doors click together seamlessly, and the curtains tickle Sokka’s bare forearms as they swell with the movement. On his way back, Zuko’s eyes seem to sear through him, though all he’s doing is sitting with his toes grazing the floor, elbows on his knees, slumped into his usual terrible posture.

As he crowds between Zuko’s knees, Sokka mumbles, “Scooch, baby,” nudges his shoulder as a nonverbal cue. Zuko scuttles back on the bed, doesn’t look away, makes enough room for Sokka to climb over him, drive his legs apart with his knees, brace himself on the mattress. Zuko grunts when Sokka shoves him a bit further up the sheets, but his arms wind around Sokka’s waist, palms slipping under the back of his shirt, and Sokka thinks he’s okay with it.

Their lips meet again, breathy and verging on desperate, and Sokka feels out of his depth though he’d be good with just kissing Zuko for hours, for every hour lost to Aang’s constant presence or their mutual reticence, whatever unspoken clause in their relationship agreement keeps them closed off until one of them bursts. Until _Sokka_ bursts, that is. He thinks he’s usually the one doing the bursting.

The sound of Zuko’s sigh, low and throaty and still somehow so tentative, makes Sokka’s skin buzz, his insides go weak. He noses over Zuko’s chin, gets his mouth on his neck, bares his teeth when Zuko’s neck arches back so forcefully, like he needs that badly to be open, exposed for Sokka.

Then Zuko’s hand dips down the arch of Sokka’s back, presses down on his ass until Sokka’s weight rests in the cradle of Zuko’s hips, where it’s hot and sturdy and Sokka can finally acknowledge he’s been getting hard since the moment Zuko took his thumb into his mouth.

Zuko, pressing his forehead to Sokka’s temple, breathes something like _oh_ , hooks his strong legs over Sokka’s thighs, rolls those deft hips up against him and— _whoa_ , yeah, Sokka knows what it’s all about now, can feel the shape of Zuko’s cock through all those useless, terrible layers of pants, and. And Zuko’s so clever, isn’t he? God, he is, and Sokka’s wading through the dark.

“Baby,” Sokka stutters, lips brushing that wet spot on Zuko’s skin, and the friction is too much and yet way too little in the way Sokka would like. Zuko shifts against him, and Sokka may not know what he’s doing but he trusts him—even if seconds later he _does_ know, feels it when Zuko’s palm fits over the bulge in Sokka’s jeans, squeezes. The heel of his hand _digs_. Sokka’s hips jerk, and his cock might twitch but maybe not if only because his jeans are too fucking tight right now, and then Zuko lets up, a blessing but a curse. His collarbone bumps Sokka in the forehead, then, because he’s propping himself on his elbows, Sokka realizes. He, too, eases back a bit, lifts his head to peer straight into Zuko’s wildfire eyes. The rosy flush in his cheeks definitely doesn’t go unnoticed, either.

“Look,” says Zuko, a bit hoarse, “I know it’s—it’s _always_ me doing this, but.” His lips thin as they press tightly together, and his eyes flicker away. The inside of Sokka’s head screams _no, come back_. “I don’t really want to have sex in my father’s house.”

Sokka’s eyes blow wide. “You want to have sex?” A pause. “With me?”

Zuko does look at him now, squinting. Says nothing.

Sokka blinks, slips into a sheepish smile. “Sorry, just… _voicing_ it is a whole thing—”

“Did you not want to?”

They haven’t moved much—Sokka’s still between Zuko’s legs, most of his weight now in his knees, and Zuko’s still on his elbows. So when they lock eyes, Sokka’s still close enough that Zuko’s almost a blur of features in his vision. “No, I did,” Sokka coughs. “ _Do_. I do… _want_.” When Zuko still doesn’t respond—just stares openly, unreadably—Sokka clears his throat. “In fact, I’d even be willing to loosen the screws in this bed and jump on it a few times and possibly break it just so your dad is forced to listen, but.”

Zuko is blank-faced. Then the left corner of his lips tugs imperceptibly. “Don’t.” He sighs, lays back on the sheets, and his thick hair falls in a haphazard halo to frame his face. “Sorry. It’s just too familiar.” He casts a glance over the room, rubs at his eyes.

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Sokka feels Zuko’s legs relax off his own. He shifts to sit beside him, cross-legged, a bit uncomfortable, but only physically. Blue-balled. “Do you want to talk about it?” _It_. He’s not sure what _it_ is, so it’s better to be purposefully vague.

Zuko shakes his head. His fingers brush over Sokka’s knee, squeeze at it. “Sorry I wound you up.”

Sokka cracks a smile, lifts his brows. Thinks of Zuko’s clever, clever fingers, the ones now on his knee. “You did. You did do that.”

Zuko chuckles. Again, “Sorry,” but it’s not humorous.

“Shut up.” Fondly, Sokka pats the back of Zuko’s hand, curls his fingers over it. It’s sudden, the way he notices the sweat cooling on his shirt, on his hairline and the back of his neck. “Well, if you don’t wanna talk,” he nods toward Zuko’s nightstand, “you wanna have cake?”

Slowly, Zuko follows his gaze. His following scoff is half-snort, and Sokka imagines how an omniscient narrator might describe his own eyes at that moment—sparkly, probably. _Reflecting back the light of Zuko_ , or some dumb shit like that.

Accurate, yes, but dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)  
> 10 - trouble is a friend (lenka)


	11. 11 - the lakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, I remember the days when this was supposed to max out at 50k. oops. also, thank you for the beautiful beautiful comments, I quite genuinely don't know how to adequately respond with my appreciation, but. THANK YOU for reading. ♥

A gust of brisk wind flutters the sheets over Sokka’s bare chest, and the weight of a body in his lap grounds him to the mattress before he’s had a chance to open his eyes.

“Sokka.” A gentle slap to his cheek, a pinch to his chin that shakes his head to and fro.

Sokka’s nose scrunches up, and he groans, reaches unseeingly toward one of the legs astride his lap. Squeezes. Zuko’s wearing jeans. “What?” he whispers, opens a single eye. Above him, Zuko is indeed dressed from head to toe, and the balcony doors are open, letting in the chill to which Sokka had awoken. Twilight casts the edges of Zuko’s silhouette a pale lavender. Then Sokka snorts, loud and sudden, as he rubs at his unopened eye. “You look like a beat poet.”

Zuko frowns. “What?”

“Mm.” Sokka sits up halfway, cranes out his hand to crook his fingertip under the turtleneck collar of Zuko’s black form-fitting shirt. It looks good on him. Still, Sokka laughs. “Do you happen to own a beret?”

Zuko doesn’t give him the time of day. He’s put-together, if sleep-ruffled and bed-headed, eyes puffy. “You have ten minutes.” He hikes himself off Sokka’s lap, feet hitting the floor soundlessly.

“Ten minutes for what?” Sokka sits up fully, rolls out his shoulders. The sheets puddle in his lap.

“To get ready. We’re leaving.”

Sokka hesitates, then gapes. “The sun hasn’t even risen yet!” he croaks and gestures out the balcony doors, where the pastel half-light has yet to even reflect off the distant water.

Viciously, Zuko shushes him. “You’ll wake someone.” He hooks his hand under the strap of Sokka’s backpack, tosses it uncourteously on the bed, where it bounces next to Sokka’s legs. Then Zuko takes the plate off the nightstand, on which mere crumbs remain—Sokka’d gone to bed a bit queasy, had refused to let Jennie’s culinary splendor go to waste—as well as his duffel from the floor. “I’ll be in the car.”

For a moment, Sokka can only watch him, dazed. But the outdoor air does what half a cup of coffee would do, and Sokka gives himself a few pats to the face before he nods, hefts himself from the mattress.

Sokka swings into the passenger seat. “Can I drive?” He grins at Zuko, who’s peering uneasily out the driver’s side window at his dad’s house, dusted with a pale sheen of gray by the dawn. But the moment Sokka’s ass hits the seat, Zuko shifts into reverse and Sokka has to hurry to slam the door shut.

“No,” murmurs Zuko, as he twists around in his seat, backs out the opened gates.

“What, why not?” Sokka tries to catch his eye, leans into the narrow space between their seats. “Please? It may be true that the last time I drove was August, but I’m _very_ competent on the road. And you should take a break.”

“You don’t know where we’re going,” Zuko says calmly. Sokka lifts a brow.

“Are we not going back to school?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah.” Sokka hums slyly, slumps comfortably in his own seat and buckles himself in. “We’ve got a man with a _plan_ on our hands.”

“Shut up.”

Sokka turns toward the window, contented. Though the sky is milky and translucent with clouds, the further the sun rises, the more Sokka can see the seascape, the whites of waves breaking on craggy rocks. Zuko starts the smooth drive back up that narrow, windy road, and after a minute, Sokka presents his upturned palm to Zuko in driver’s seat territory. “Hold my hand.”

“What—”

“Because I want you to.”

“I didn’t ask _why_.” Zuko’s gaze flits to Sokka’s hand, then back to the road. “I can’t drive one-handed.”

Sokka decides he’s perfectly fine with keeping his arm where it is for as long as it takes. “Well, have you ever tried?”

“No,” Zuko says, and the rasp in his voice might be defensive were it not yet seven in the morning, “which is exactly how I know I can’t do it.”

Sokka chuckles. “Oh, baby, I would strongly beg to differ. That just means you don’t _know_ if you can.”

For a moment, Zuko says nothing. Then, warily, “It’s a fifteen-minute drive. I’ll hold your hand when we get there.”

This doesn’t shake the wry smile from Sokka’s face. He lowers his hand to his lap, toes curling inside his shoes, and nods with the utmost professionalism. “Deal.”

* * *

_Sokka had been so distracted by the irrational pleasure filling his chest at being allowed to feed Zuko a piece of chocolate cake off the same fork that he didn’t fully have his wits about him when Zuko swallowed and murmured, “Isn’t it weird, like, what things stick in your memory? But not in other people’s?”_

_Sokka, on his stomach on the bed, was busy trying to concoct the perfect bite on the prongs of the fork: a fudgy bit of cake, at least half a raspberry, and a dollop of whipped cream. And his brain was too late in catching up, the fork had already made it to his mouth. “Huh?” he mumbled around the mouthful, shooting Zuko a disoriented look._

_“Like…” Zuko sighed, laced his fingers over his bare chest. Since they’d shut the doors, the air in the room had warmed up, or perhaps it was just the sheets they’d warmed with their body heat. Zuko was on his back, eyes on a nondescript patch of ceiling above the bed. “Like… there’re certain interactions you have with other people that stick with you for a long time. For whatever reason. Maybe you thought something was, like, unusually nice of them. Or you haven’t had that sort of interaction in a while, or something. And… not that you exactly_ know _, but you can guess that for that other person, there wasn’t anything special about it—about that thing you remember. Like, they probably do it all the time, won’t remember that they said something nice to you or gave you some look or… whatever. And they have so many other people in their life and so many other memories that they won’t think about it ever again, but you will, because it was so different for you. And you have… fewer memories. At least it feels like you do.” Zuko’s brow furrowed, and he took a second to arch his spine from the mattress, pop something in his lower back. “S’that ever happen to you?”_

_Sokka, trying to wrap his mind around everything he’s just heard, wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “Hm…”_

_Zuko chuckled at the hesitation. “That probably made no sense.” He touched his own lips absentmindedly. “Sugar makes me tired.”_

_Sokka blinked, set the fork down with a clatter. “No, it did! It made sense. They were words, and they made sense. I’m just… trying to think.”_

_“If nothing comes to mind, it probably doesn’t happen to you often.”_

_Sokka picked up the fork again, poked dents into the cake’s smooth surface. “Maybe.”_

_“Figures.” And Zuko gave him a smile, enigmatic and faint, irises in shadow under his dark eyelashes, and rolled off the bed to go turn on the shower._

* * *

They’re near the coast now—not that they ever left it, but it’s near _er_. Sokka feels like he could almost reach out the window and touch the ice-cold, dark water. Then he reads the sign for the park as they drive past it, assumes it’s where they’re headed. Adopting his best poker face, he glances at Zuko.

“So, where are we going?”

Zuko’s eyes dart out over the empty parking lot as he pulls in, seems to hesitate before deciding on a spot. “Just the beach.”

“What’s it called?” Sokka presses, _casual_ , though maybe not with the antsy way his fingers run over his jaw.

Zuko puts the car into park, nibbles his lower lip.

“Mhm, what was that?”

Zuko snorts. “I didn’t _say_ anything.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, shoves his door open. Quieter, he adds, “Lovers Point.”

Sokka’s face splits into a grin at the answer he’d already known. But before he can say anything, jostling out of the car, Zuko appears on the passenger side, hands stuffed into the tight pockets of his tighter jeans. “It’s just the best beach around these parts,” says Zuko, eyes on Sokka. He locks the car almost scarily fast once Sokka’s shut the door.

Sokka makes a thoughtful noise, his smile wide but tight-lipped. He follows Zuko, who’s crossing the parking lot, a tall, black silhouette against the sand-dusted concrete. “That’s not true,” Sokka asserts. The wind off the bay blows under his hoodie, tickles his bare skin. “See, I did my research before we came here, and Lovers Point is only the _second_ best beach in Pacific Grove according to Tripadvisor. Asilomar is number one.”

“Well, I like this one better.”

“Because of the name?”

“Because I like it better!”

Sokka laughs, jogs up to match Zuko’s pace.

The beach is small, a shallow C-shape framed by a stone wall and tumbling rocks, picturesque despite the season. It’s void of visitors, as one might expect at the ass crack of dawn in mid-December. Zuko’s shoulders are up by his ears as he starts down the stairs going down to the sand, arms snugly across his chest.

“Are you cold?” asks Sokka, right on his heels. Zuko might nod, or it could just be an illusion, caused by the wind whipping his shaggy hair about. “I can go get your jacket from the car.”

“No.” He trudges on. And Sokka looks up at the sky, shakes his head. His cheeks hurt from smiling, or then it’s the wind pricking at them.

Down on the sand, Zuko’s boots leave heavy tracks. He stays near the rocks, watching the ashy water lap at the sand. “There were always loads of people here,” he says, squints his eyes against the wind, “during the summer.”

Sokka sidles up to him, kicks at a bundle of seaweed by his foot. “It’s nice.” Despite his not-so-rude awakening, the crisp air fills his lungs, invigorates him.

“It’s nicer when it’s sunny.” Zuko’s head tilts to the side. His flyaways brush Sokka’s temple, likely unintentional. “The water looks all clear.” He casts a rueful eye toward the cloud cover.

Sokka gives Zuko a good smack on the ass. “I like it misty and melancholy.” Then he bends at the knee, proceeds to untie his sneakers and peel off his socks, ruck up his jeans as far as they’ll go up his calves.

“Sokka,” Zuko starts, exasperated, like he doesn’t need to ask _what are you doing?_ and instead takes a preemptive step toward the water which, yes, is precisely where Sokka’s headed.

“You brought me to a cute little beach, of course I’m putting my toes in the water.” The sand is packed and dense and cold as he hops up, tweaks Zuko on the cheek. Then he jogs toward the water’s edge.

“It’s gotta be, what? Fifty degrees?” But Zuko follows, still hunched against the chill in the air.

“That’s way above freezing.” Though when Sokka steps in up to the ankles, he howls. The echo of it is lost on the water. Maybe someone hears it on the other side of Monterey Bay. He grits his teeth, stays where he’s rooted, fingers clenched into fists. “Okay, I’m adjusted,” he lies to Zuko, who’s at the water’s edge, thick boots impervious to the edges of the shallow waves that wash up by his soles. “It’s great. The water’s fine, honey.”

“You don’t have to risk catching a cold just to prove your stupidity to me.”

For a moment, Sokka simply gapes, then lets out a resounding, disbelieving laugh. “Damn, okay.” And he feels nothing but glee—definitely doesn’t feel his toes—when he locks gazes with Zuko for long enough to share a smile. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Zuko, tucking a smile down into his chest, twirls on his heel. “Get out of the water, Sokka.”

He does.

Zuko’s leaning against the wall as Sokka shuffles back to him, struggling to dry the bottoms of his feet and scrape the sand off against his pant legs every few steps. He thunks down at the bottom of the stairs to put his socks back on.

“I’m putting the heat on full blast in the car,” says Zuko, and Sokka eyes him, lips pulling wryly back from his teeth.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

Zuko’s lips twitch. He rubs his hands over his biceps, looks out at the bay. The clouded light is all-encompassing, reaches even the hollows under his cheekbones where shadows so often creep. “Did you want to go to Asilomar instead? It’s not far at all.” He tilts his head back against the wall, looking so utterly _grave_ all the sudden. “I’m kind of the worst local ever. Even—now that we’re down here, I guess Big Sur is only an hour away…”

Sokka’s feet are still damp and only halfway in his sneakers, but he stands too quickly to care, takes those few strides left between himself and Zuko, clamping his hands down over Zuko’s on his arms. “I’ll have you know I really, _really_ like Lovers Beach.”

“Point,” Zuko corrects softly, and he’s looking between Sokka’s eyes, a bit rigid.

“Lovers Point.” Sokka chuckles, and then he sighs, nudges Zuko a bit closer to the stone wall. “I really, really like being at Lovers Point…” He lifts his eyebrows. “With… _my_ …”

“Don’t say it,” Zuko groans, drops the crown of his head toward the wall.

“Fine, I won’t.” Sokka surrenders easily, quietly. Won’t fight Zuko on that front, in case it’d be like opening Pandora’s box. But the core of his chest still feels warm, _mushy_ , even, so he brushes his fingers over the side of Zuko’s neck where he’s unreasonably pulsing hot, licks his lips before he kisses the side of Zuko’s neck.

And Zuko crumbles. Lets all his weight pitch back against the wall, arms hooking around Sokka’s waist, pulling him close so the next time Sokka leans in to kiss right under his ear Zuko’s already there, turning his head and dipping his chin to catch him first.

Sokka runs his hand up and down Zuko’s arm, hums against the curl of Zuko’s tongue in his mouth, and the way Zuko molds against him, moves his hands over Sokka’s back under his hoodie… it makes that _want_ feel mutual. Makes Sokka think back to last night. Makes him think maybe the box doesn’t contain indescribable evils.

Zuko draws away, lips a bit red and bitten, but not without giving Sokka a sort of strange, shy kiss briefly-goodbye to his cheek. He reaches for something—his phone—and checks the time, Sokka thinks, and Sokka’s ready to ask if he’s in a hurry when Zuko clears his throat, scratches blunt nails over the backs of Sokka’s ribs. “Um,” says Zuko, not to Sokka’s face but past his shoulder, to the bay. “Did you have any plans the next few days? Before you leave?”

Sokka’s mind has yet to make the context-switch to verbal communication. He can tell that Zuko’s still cold, so he shifts in closer, tucks his chin against Zuko’s shoulder. “I mean… not really? My flight’s on Tuesday night. Tomorrow’s Monday. I guess just… pack? Drink with anyone who hasn’t left yet?”

Zuko is silent. His arms hug Sokka, and it’d be hard to tear away should Sokka wish to try. He doesn’t. “H-have you ever been to New York?” asks Zuko.

Sokka’s vision is a meld of the earthen tones of the stones piecing the wall together. “What? The city?” he asks, like it matters. He’s been to neither state nor city.

“Yeah.”

“Mm, gonna have to say no.”

Zuko huff-laughs. “Okay.” He also tips his chin onto Sokka’s shoulder. “Do you want to go?”

“Yeah, sure, someday.”

“What about this afternoon?”

Sokka raises his head, looks at what he can see of Zuko: the side of his neck, the black hair tickling it. “What… does that mean?”

“I think we should go.” Again, Zuko clears his throat. “For… a day. A day and a half. It’ll be night by the time we get there, but we’ll have all of tomorrow and you could be in Tacoma by Tuesday night, in time for your dad’s partner’s birthday the next day.”

Sokka stalls inadvertently. Had he mentioned Bato’s birthday to Zuko? Had Katara? He can’t recall. “Can… we go back to page one?”

Zuko breathes deep. Then he, too, recoils enough to look Sokka in the eye, if just for a second. “There might be tickets for us on a one-pm flight from SFO. Today.” He rubs at the inner corner of his eye, coughs. “And another for you from JFK to Seattle.”

“ _There_? _There_ might be? Where is _there_? What does that mean?” Sokka feels fury ebb at the edges of his conscience, and he takes Zuko by the jaw, twists him to face front. “Zuko, I can’t let you buy me two cross-country plane tickets.”

“I didn’t!” he protests, raspy and a bit shrill, and he might be angled toward Sokka but he’s focused on anything but. “I mean… I _made_ the purchase. But it wasn’t my money.”

Whilst Sokka puzzles over what that means, he’s also thinking about the astronomical price of flying to New York this close to the holidays. He closes his eyes. “Zuko…”

“Please.” Zuko bunches his hands at the sides of Sokka’s hoodie. “Please, just. Father doesn’t check his bank statements. Not for his personal spending account. And by the time he notices, it won’t matter.” His warm hands find Sokka’s face, and _oh_ , he’s playing so dirty. Sokka lifts his chin to stare up at the white sky. Seconds ago, he was so intent on looking Zuko in his guilty eyes, and now he’s struggling to.

“You… want us to go to New York City,” Sokka murmurs, clicks his tongue, “for a _day_. On Daddy’s money.”

Zuko inhales, exhales. “When you put it that way…”

“You’re sneaky,” says Sokka, and he finds himself chuckling, dropping his eyes to take in Zuko’s face, the flush blotching his cheeks. “Like, the whole lying-to-your-dad-about-your-major thing, that’s just your anxiety and all the pressure from his expectations and whatever, but this, _this_ is conniving.”

Zuko’s lips are parted, and he blinks a few times, eyes faraway, past Sokka’s face. A slight smile, but it comes and goes. “Maybe I took a page out of my sister’s book.” His hands snake down to Sokka’s shoulders. “She takes his credit card to West Elm once a year to redecorate her room.”

Sokka laughs lightly. “You do realize it was yesterday that I told your dad I was from Seattle. And now there’s a charge on his card for a ticket to SeaTac.”

Zuko smiles humorlessly. Though making eye contact with him is a futile task, his hands are solid on Sokka’s shoulders, like he doesn’t plan on moving them any time soon. “Would you rather I have paid for them myself?”

“No,” Sokka chokes out. “God, no. But I _would’ve_ liked some warning before you decided to whisk me away on a ridiculously expensive twenty-four-hour romantic getaway.” It’s probably the precarious word _romantic_ that makes Zuko’s cheeks flame more, his eyes flicker bashfully down, but Sokka likes it. “Which was… when did you decide?”

Zuko shrugs. Puts a bit of space between their bodies as he leans back into the wall. “Early this morning.”

“Before you woke me up?”

“Mhm.”

Sokka arches a brow. “Presumptuous.”

Zuko snorts. “Not really. Just stupid.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know what you’d say.”

A myriad of emotions well in Sokka’s body, like slowly-rising water encroaching on his lungs. He wants to say _when have I ever said no to you?_ but he’s not sure Zuko’s ever asked anything of him. “Well, if the question you’re asking me is _do I want to hang out with you_ , the answer’s obviously yes.”

Sokka counts two hissing rounds of wave crashes before Zuko mumbles, “Okay.”

Sokka smiles, brushes his thumb gently over Zuko’s chin. “Maybe your dad will hire a hitman to come after me,” he says dreamily.

Zuko tweaks his nipple, which is uncalled-for. Then he turns out of Sokka’s arms, heads for the stairs. “We need to get on the road now if we want to have time to stop by your place and get your things. Whatever you need for the whole break,” says Zuko. Sokka follows a step behind him, watches his pale fingers run through the back of his dark hair. “And I have this gut feeling you’re a heavy packer.”

Sokka’s jaw drops playfully. “I’m a minimalist.” He takes a step. “Who also happens to think many things spark joy.”

On the path back to the parking lot, Sokka legs it until he’s at Zuko’s side. He tangles their fingers together, at which point Zuko looks down at the pair of hands Sokka’s now swinging between their hips.

“You said I could hold your hand,” Sokka insists, because he’s watching Zuko at all times, trying to analyze his every microexpression.

And Zuko says, “I know,” quietly. Nothing more.

* * *

Sokka decides—all by his lonesome, as there’s no one else to inform—that he’s been dethroned as the king of sleeping on public transport.

The fifth hour of the flight is coming to an end; they’ll be landing soon. It’s also the fifth consecutive hour that Zuko’s spent in a deep slumber with his cheek on Sokka’s shoulder. It makes Sokka wonder if he slept at all at his dad’s the night prior, or if promptly knocking out after takeoff is just another of his many talents. Considering they’ll arrive in New York at nine Eastern, he has a feeling Zuko won’t get much sleep at all that coming night.

Sokka pulls up the window shade. The night is inky blue but the city is visible and twinkling, clusters of iridescent glimmers. He’s heard many an opinion on New York City from many a person—half seem to hate it for the rats and the smell of trash roasting in broad summer sunlight—but it’s hard not to romanticize it from several miles up in the air. Sokka thinks of how he’d been at his apartment some eight hours earlier, stuffing only the necessities into a bag, and had stumbled into the hallway with Zuko leading the way, only for Katara to open her apartment door and catch them mid-flee.

“I thought I heard you knocking around,” she’d said, eyes big and curious. “How’d everything go in Mont—” Her eyes had dropped to Sokka’s duffel. “Are you leaving again?”

“We’re gonna miss it,” Zuko had muttered (in the end, they hadn’t been anywhere close to missing their flight).

“Urgent business on the east coast,” Sokka’d provided, in classic fashion with a voice crack, smiling at his sister and clamping his hand over Zuko’s. “I’ll see you at home Tuesday night!”

“The _east_ —?” Katara’s voice echoed in the hallway behind them, traveled down the stairwell with impressive reach. _“Sokka?!”_

The seatbelt sign _ding_ s on and Zuko jolts from his silent sleep like he’s been electrocuted. His eyes are still small and sleepy and his hand flies to his hair to fix it, though he’s doing it all wrong, as it’s matted worst where his head had rested on Sokka.

And Sokka watches, suppressing a goofy smile and schooling his face into something like aloofness. “Good evening, moonshine.”

Zuko grunts as he rubs at his eyes, smacks his lips.

“Do you have a hidden _off_ button somewhere?” Sokka pulls at the collar of Zuko’s turtleneck as if to peer inside, but Zuko swats him away.

“Are we landing?” he says, voice rough, and cranes his neck to look out Sokka’s window. Sokka lets him see for himself, imagines that the city lights would reflect little constellations in Zuko’s eyes if the harsh fluorescents above hadn’t just flickered on in the cabin.

The terminal is busy, even on a Sunday at this time of night. Zuko grabs Sokka’s hand—presumably as not to lose him in the chaos—and they make their way to the exit with hands adjoined, lightly-packed bags on each free arm. Sokka hadn’t thought to question where they’d be staying, but when Zuko says their _hotel_ is in Manhattan, Sokka opens up a maps app and realizes just how far JFK truly is from Manhattan proper. And Zuko’s mid-ordering a fucking _Uber_.

“Dude, _no_ , do you know how expensive that’ll be?” Sokka locks his phone for him, stuffs it into the pocket of Zuko’s hoodie.

Zuko’s still sleepy, eyes shadowed, filled with perhaps a bit of ire as he drops his liberated hand to his side. “It doesn’t matter—”

“Does to me.” Sokka ropes Zuko in by the shoulders, and they stand outside the doors to the buzzing Arrivals level, shivering together (Zuko more than Sokka) as Sokka plots out the course of their… hour-plus-long journey. “We flew here the Zuko way and we’re spending the night the Zuko way. Or… the Ozai way. As such, we’ll travel by ground the _Sokka_ way.”

Zuko doesn’t quite match Sokka’s level of enthusiasm when they step off the AirTrain at Jamaica Station and Sokka sees a _real_ sign for the _real_ New York City subway.

“Chin up, baby!” Sokka practically screeches. He feels a strange, ten-pm New-York-virgin-tourist adrenaline rush overcome him as he swipes his new metro card, steps through the turnstile. “It’s my first time, come on. This thing is famous!”

“Infamous,” mutters Zuko, following. So Sokka lets him have the single open seat, which Zuko has to give up the next stop anyway when an elderly man boards.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting.”

There’s a doorman—or several. Sokka can’t remember the last time he stayed at a hotel, but it was definitely one without doormen. It might’ve even been a motel, the kind where for a “small fee” they’ll throw in a complimentary continental breakfast “buffet” of defrosted egg patties and mini cereal boxes crammed into a chair-less, tiny lobby.

No doormen, though.

“My father’s part of their loyalty program,” says Zuko. They’re idling across the street from the hotel, near the stop where the subway had spat them out. Their breaths are visible in the frigid air. “It… was just the first place I thought of.”

Sokka spares a glance down at himself. He’d once tried to follow Katara into a Louis Vuitton store at a mall wearing a similar getup—worn cargo pants and a ratty sweatshirt—and the workers in their streamlined, black suits had fixed him with such fierce stares he’d made half a loop around the store before deciding to call it quits and leave. “Do you think they’ll let me in there?” he mutters, half-chuckling. “I have this gut feeling that one night in one of their bougiest suites could pay a month of my rent.”

“I have a reservation, they can’t kick you out.” At some point in the subway bustle, their hands had come apart, and Zuko takes Sokka’s again, tugs him toward the crosswalk.

“Unless your dad froze his credit card.”

Zuko just snorts. “Hell would freeze over sooner.”

There are trees growing _inside_ the hotel lobby. Sokka spends so long ogling them that it feels like no time at all has passed when Zuko returns to his side, keycards successfully acquired.

The elevator is mirrored, and Zuko presses the button for the fourteenth floor as Sokka stares first at his own reflection, then Zuko’s. “This doesn’t feel real,” he mumbles. “Is it real? Listen, I’m pretty damn sure you slept on the plane and I didn’t, but _maybe_ I did and I just never woke up.”

Zuko pinches his forearm, smiles at Sokka through the mirror when he flinches.

“Thanks,” huffs Sokka, in lieu of _ow_. “But I’m still not convinced. It’s just…” The elevator rolls to a stop on floor seven, and two women in high heels stumble in, possibly tipsy. Sokka’s not sure if he should alert them that the elevator’s headed up. Instead, he edges closer to Zuko, ignores their babbling to hiss in his ear, “This is like the moment in a rom-com right before something terrible happens, you know? Like, first comes the montage of our spontaneous trip to New York City, seeing the Rockefeller Center tree and feeding each other hotdogs and probably having sex with the sheets covering all our important parts, only for it all to come crashing down and end in heartbreak because I find out you’ve been engaged all along when your fiancé walks in on us drinking champagne in the bathtub.”

The screen above the elevator doors reads a digital _14_. Zuko doesn’t move, not at first, because he’s looking at Sokka strangely, and from very close—he’d turned his head when Sokka’s lips had practically been glued to his ear.

Then a perfumed wrist drapes over Sokka’s shoulder. “S’this your floor, honey?” slurs the smaller of the two women, and that’s when Zuko springs into action, sticking his arm between the elevator doors before they can close and dragging Sokka out with him.

“Do you want me to prove to you that I’m not engaged?” mutters Zuko, thumbing a keycard from the holder as they take a turn down the hall and stop outside room 1412. He lifts his eyes to Sokka’s, taps the card to the reader on the door and opens it in one fluid motion. He steps inside.

Sokka rolls his eyes but makes a faint smile, stalling on the threshold. “ _No_. I just mean… you know.” Or maybe he doesn’t. “Generally speaking. Doesn’t feel real.” Like the floor might fall out from under his feet. It isn’t even the luxury that’s throwing him off, though it certainly adds to the surreal haze of it all.

It could be he’s still dwelling on the events of that day. Or—rather, on what they _mean_. At face value, Zuko took him to his dad’s place, to a beach.

To New York City.

Given a few lines, Sokka’s not so emotionally stunted that he can’t read between them. But he’s never been able to fully read Zuko to begin with.

His own lines, though? He can read those. Easily.

“You look tired,” chuckles Zuko, who returns from the depths of the suite to circle his fingers around Sokka’s wrist and tug him inside. _Ah, right._ He’s still in the door. Sokka drops his bag to the floor, gazing past Zuko’s shoulder at floor-to-ceiling windows. Stretching beyond them are dense smatterings of city lights, and Central Park, too, if Sokka hasn’t totally thrown his internal compass out of whack.

“This suite might be bigger than my house,” he says airily, because from where he’s standing, there’s no sign of a bedroom anywhere. Just a breakfast nook, an upscale living room. He turns to Zuko, pinches his cheeks between the fingers of one hand, and warns, “You can never come to my dad’s. There’s no marble there, you know. Might throw you off.”

“How could I ever survive.” Zuko manages perfect monotony, deadpan stare and all. Sokka grins.

“Wouldn’t wanna risk it and find out.” He releases Zuko’s chin, pats him on the cheek. “Now show me to the royal water closet. I feel like a plane ate me and shat me out. And… I think I took these pants from the dirty pile.”

The deep bathtub had been tempting, but by the time Sokka’d finished examining all the little complimentary bottles of bath products, he’d grown too impatient to wait for it to fill. So he steps out of the shower, skin steaming, wraps a towel around his waist before he saunters into the bedroom—which Sokka had disbelievingly laughed at when he’d first seen. Were it closer to ground level, it’d be an exhibitionist’s dream, with a bed directly facing another set of gaping windows, a panoramic city view.

Zuko’s on his stomach on the bed, chin propped on a pillow with his phone in one hand and a chocolate-covered strawberry in the other. The latter, joined by a bottle of Dom Pérignon, had sat on a tray awaiting them in the bedroom with an ingratiating note from the hotel that’d said something along the lines of _O great Ozai, thank you yet again for choosing_ our _luxury hotel chain to blow your money on_ in looping cursive.

Sokka’s pulled on a clean pair of boxers—probably in full view of some unlucky birds and anyone with a decent pair of binoculars in that one high-rise not too far away—and is toweling his hair when he remarks, “Why do I feel like we shouldn’t be inside right now? It’s my first time ever in New York, we just finished our second-to-last semester ever and have zero obligations, are both of legal drinking age _and_ have only _one_ full day in this city. And it’s not even midnight yet!”

Zuko’s lips make a sort of suction sound when he sticks the strawberry in his mouth whole and bites it off the hull. “I don’t think the MoMA’s open right now,” he tells Sokka as he chews and rolls onto his side. He tosses the leafy green bit back onto the plate, checks to see that Sokka is indeed watching him with narrowed eyes before he smiles and trains his eyes back on his phone.

“Very funny.” Sokka drapes his towel on a hook on the bathroom door. Then he crawls on the bed, kneels beside Zuko and touches the back of his hand to Zuko’s forehead, contemplative. “You know, maybe I should’ve brought it up sooner, but your degree of _little shit_ -ness has increased exponentially since I first met you. I think you should get that checked out.”

“Really.” Zuko’s eyes flicker to him lazily.

“Yes. Before it becomes terminal.” Sokka makes a playful grab for Zuko’s phone, but he dodges it swiftly as he rolls on his back and catches Sokka’s wrist. “Who is it?”

“Mai.” Zuko locks his phone, tosses it somewhere faraway on the too-big bed, finally gives Sokka his full attention. “She says hi.”

“Tell her I said to fuck off. Wait—no, please don’t. I take it back. She’ll telekinetically choke me out.”

Zuko hums in accord, lugs Sokka’s hand off his forehead. There’s a slight, amused quirk to his lips. “Maybe. But she loves you,” he says.

Sokka laughs, loud and skeptical. “Her own words?”

“Yeah, actually.” Zuko lets Sokka’s hand go, and Sokka presses it to the mattress just above Zuko’s shoulder. “But don’t tell her I told you. She’ll telekinetically stab me.”

Sokka feels an odd sort of thrill fill his chest as he grins. Someday ages from now, when he’s scientifically disproven Mai’s psychic abilities, he’ll bring it up with her. “Ah, mortal peril,” he muses. “One of the many things we bear for friendship.”

“Apparently.” And they watch each other, though Zuko breaks the eye contact first. “Um…” He sits up, slow as to give Sokka time to move out of the way before their skulls crash together. “Did you want a strawberry?”

Sokka blinks, notices that Zuko’s gesturing to the silver tray at the far corner of the bed. He breathes out a laugh, faint, and shakes his head. “I’m good.” It was true they hadn’t eaten a proper meal since that afternoon at the San Francisco airport—where Sokka had stuffed three Dunkin Donuts english muffins down his gullet and loaded up on overpriced protein bars for the plane ride—but he’s not sure he can stomach anything right now. Not that he feels queasy, but… there’s something in the air, something other than purified, dehumidified, rich-folk hotel air, that is.

“Okay.” Zuko slides off the sheets. He’s still clothed head to toe, but only someone like Sokka who spends too long analyzing Zuko’s monochromatic outfits would notice he’d changed from his black jeans into clingy black jogger pants. As always, his legs look ridiculously long.

Idling by the tray, Zuko lifts the champagne from the ice bucket. It’s untouched, on its way to swimming in a puddle of slush. “How about… champagne?” He lifts an eyebrow at Sokka, then clears his throat, scanning the label. _“Vintage 2008.”_

Sokka sets his elbow on his knee, chin on his hand, smiles as he shakes his head.

Zuko eyes him, then hums, “Hm, good.” He sets it back in the ice bucket, then carries the tray over to the writing desk—also made of fucking marble. “No one ever lets me pop the cork, so I don’t know how.”

Sokka sits back against the pillows, laces his fingers together in his lap. “For some reason, it makes sense to me that you’d be dangerous wielding an unopened champagne bottle.”

Zuko snorts, and he idles by the desk, skimming his fingers along its spotless surface. “It’s probably the same reason Brock doesn’t let me cut vegetables.” A hesitation. “Or fruit.”

Sokka _tsk_ s his tongue once. “Nah, it’s _definitely_ the same reason.”

Zuko just looks at him a moment. Then he says, “You’re mean.”

“Am I?” Sokka smiles, easy and wide. “How _is_ Brock, by the way? I miss that dude. Does his benefits package include paid vacation?” He squints in thought. “That is, if he _gets_ vacation time at all. Please tell me Brock isn’t gonna spend his winter break doing your laundry.”

Zuko scoffs, eyes on the carpeted floor, but there’s a hint of softness at the corners of his lips that tells Sokka he hasn’t pushed his buttons too hard. “No.” He lifts his gaze, tilts his head to the side, a bit abashed. “My uncle will.”

Sokka laughs again, brighter this time, claps his hands. “Oh, of _course_ , silly me. But—dude, your _uncle_. Fuck, I miss him, too. I never went back for my free boba.”

Zuko gets on his knees on the edge of the bed. “You can’t miss someone you met for two minutes.”

“Are you joking? I definitely can.” He folds his arms tightly over his chest. The hotel room is warm; outside their windows, in the sparkling dark, it’s thirty degrees. Naturally, all of Sokka’s winter gear is packed into a box in their attic in Tacoma. He’ll maybe last a day in New York weather, which is all he really needs to. “I hadn’t known you for very long at all when I decided you were my boyfriend.” _Fake_. Fake boyfriend. Sokka doesn’t retract the statement, though.

Zuko settles a few feet away, cross-legged, almost between Sokka’s spread legs. Almost. So one of his knees just barely touches Sokka’s ankle. “That’s true,” he grants, and then he’s looking at his nails, as if there’s something there other than just… _nail_. “You move fast.”

“I do.” Sokka nods with such force that he bounces slightly on the mattress. “My dad told me Katara wasn’t even out of the womb before I started missing her. I just didn’t get it, you know, like, I wanted to play, so why didn’t she just hurry the fuck up and _arrive_.”

Zuko stops looking at his nails. His eyes are almost feline, his smile tight-lipped. “That’s sweet.”

Unexpectedly, Sokka’s neck flushes. “Shut up.” He kicks at Zuko’s knee, just a light scrape of his toes.

“You know it is.”

Sokka’s eyes do a half-roll. He unfolds his arms, cracks his knuckles. Deflecting, he murmurs, “You gonna sit over there all night?”

Zuko licks his lower lip, and his smile cracks wider. “No,” he says, and he scoots up closer. Definitely between Sokka’s legs now. “I just thought you wanted to go to the MoMA.”

“Ah, yes! Me! Going to the MoMA, right now, in just my underwear, when it’s not even open. Yes, totally.” With purpose, Sokka reaches for Zuko’s thighs, hauls him as close as he’ll come before he’s untucking his legs elegantly—without kicking Sokka in the face, which is impressive in and of itself—so his thighs sit astride Sokka’s. “I’m going,” Sokka repeats, nodding fervently, “right now.”

“Okay, Sokka.” Zuko shifts his weight forward so it’s all in his knees and on Sokka’s hips, and though Sokka’s heart is lurching like his blood’s thickening into a syrup, it’s with the knowledge that there are no Aangs (bless him) or Ozais (fuck him) a mere few walls away that his fingers curl around Zuko’s calves. Anyone at _all_ who knows them is three thousand miles away. Sokka feels untethered.

Not from Zuko, though. Sokka’s holding his breath, eyes flitting over Zuko’s face like he’s suddenly at a loss for what to do. And Zuko notices.

His hand drifts over Sokka’s cheek—not holding, just barely brushing. “Are you okay?”

Sokka can only stare upward—or, not upward, but into Zuko’s eyes, at Zuko’s lips. Twice, he blinks. Then, “Is your phone on silent?”

Zuko’d been using his position to his advantage, looming a few inches over Sokka. But at that, he drops to a heavy seat in Sokka’s lap, shoulders slouching. “What?” he laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Sokka’s an idiot. “Oh, good.” He pinches the material of Zuko’s joggers between his fingers, pulls at it. “Just checking.”

Zuko shakes his head, a gesture likely more for himself than Sokka. “ _Are_ you okay?”

“I’m really good,” is what Sokka blurts immediately, swallowing, and because he can’t keep his trap shut, “You’re wearing too many clothes, Andy Warhol.” His hand strays up to the turtleneck of Zuko’s top. _Is_ he okay? Probably not. Nervous, weirdly, because… He fiddles with that same bit of fabric. _I like you_.

For a moment, Sokka’s startled to remember Zuko can’t hear his internal monologue when he responds, “I’m still cold,” smile coy and adorable and, really, Sokka would do anything he asked with a look like that.

“Fine.” Sokka’s fingers are gentle on Zuko’s neck, and they find their way to the nape, tug him down so Sokka can finally fucking kiss him.

Zuko palms down Sokka’s chest, and he sure doesn’t _feel_ cold, at least not where his palms are like branding irons on Sokka’s bare skin. He licks into Sokka’s mouth, deep and hot, and his lower lip is so soft when Sokka catches it between his teeth. Zuko’s just digging his fingers behind his back into Sokka’s knees, rutting down against him when he whispers, “Can I blow you?” and Sokka loses his breath all at once.

“Wha—yes, yes.” Sokka swallows, cards his fingers through the back of Zuko’s hair. “Jesus, yeah.”

Zuko smiles that coy smile again. He kisses Sokka once, then a second time at the corner of his mouth, before slinking out of his lap, kneeling between his legs. Sokka’s transfixed by Zuko’s eyelashes, short and dark, as he settles on his knees, and Zuko asks, again, fingertips ghosting the waistband of Sokka’s briefs, “Can I…” and Sokka nods rapidly, helps Zuko wrestle them off. Perhaps to assuage Sokka’s unvoiced worries about being naked _alone_ , after Zuko tosses his boxers off the bed, he tugs his turtleneck off, too. He huffs something of a laugh as he squirms into Sokka’s space again, runs his hot palms up Sokka’s bare thighs, curls his fingers around the base of Sokka’s cock and nuzzles his way into that tense gap between Sokka’s neck and shoulder to kiss him there. Sokka’s lips part silently, but as long as Zuko’ll be that close, he’ll have his hands on him, so he gets one low on his back and the other rifling into his hair.

“Relax,” Zuko’s voice rumbles just below his ear. He palms down Sokka’s stomach, nips at his neck, then ducks his head down to—to spit in his palm. Sokka feels dazed, transfixed.

“Trying,” he answers weakly, and tips Zuko’s chin upward a bit too soon, sees it when the shiny string of spit splits between his mouth and his hand. Swallows against the lump in his throat, digs his heels into the mattress. “God, but you’re, like.” He loses hold on his thoughts. On his mind, probably. He traces Zuko’s wet bottom lip with the edge of his thumb. “Fucking pretty.”

Zuko breathes out his nose and dips his chin but Sokka knows he’s blushing. He wraps his fingers around Sokka’s cock again, smears it wet, strokes him slow. And Sokka sags against the pillows, watching; the tendons on the back of Zuko’s hand, the bangs that hang over his eyes, the expansion and contraction of his ribs as he breathes. _So… this is really happening._

“Baby,” he utters, and Zuko bumps his forehead to Sokka’s shoulder, hums, “Mm?” as if in answer. Sokka’s so hard in his hand, has no control over the unsteadiness of his breathing or his voice or his heart as Zuko rubs his thumb into his slit. And it’s not like Sokka had a coherent thought to follow that _baby_ , it was just that, just _baby_ , but still he mumbles, right up against Zuko’s ear, “Thought you told me not to call you that.”

Zuko says nothing. The way he twists and kisses Sokka is just a brief smudge of lips, a soft _pop_ of them parting, and then he shifts down onto his stomach on the mattress. He looks up through his mussed hair, the muscles in his shoulders prominent where he props himself up, driving Sokka completely mad, and says, “Because I liked it too much.” His mouth quirks at one side— _the left,_ Sokka notes, because to him it’s worth remembering—and then he parts his lips to take the head of Sokka’s cock in his mouth.

He’s so concentrated it’s endearing. Though… Sokka thinks the tips of his ears shouldn’t be burning with this sort of endearment when the rest of his body feels something so—so divergent. Or not divergent at all. Maybe it’s all intertwined in a knot so complex there’s no way Sokka could separate those feelings.

Fuck, he’s in deep. Figuratively.

And literally. Zuko peers up at him, cheeks hollowed, eyes a bit watery and mouth hot and wet as he takes Sokka in deeper, and _Christ_ , only then do Sokka’s ears tune in to his own breathing and he wants to slap himself— _have some shame, for fuck’s sake!_

But he can’t. Spit drips from Zuko’s lips to the sheets and every few seconds his lips will make a noise that’s accidental but obscene, and Sokka, viciously gripping the sheets with both hands, loosens one to tenderly run his fingers through the front of Zuko’s hair, holding it back from his eyes.

Zuko pulls off to take a breath, though he’s still pumping at Sokka’s cock, licking his lips. His chin his wet but he doesn’t wipe at it and instead looks right into Sokka’s eyes, always so sly but so much less guarded now. “Okay?” he whispers, and Sokka could laugh.

His face is hot. “Yeah, you’re—fuck, yeah, so much better than okay,” says Sokka. The very pit of his stomach is on fire.

Zuko huffs, smiles. “Okay.”

“Sorry, I’m—I should be telling you how good you are without you having to ask for it,” Sokka rambles, pets his fingers through Zuko’s hair. His hammering heart is kind of a nuisance in his ears. “‘Cos you are. So fucking good, baby, but I’m, like, kind of mind-blown,” and he _can’t_ miss this opportunity, “and, yes, cock-blown, too, so if I get lucky enough that this ever happens again I swear I’ll be a better receiver, but, like.” He swallows, and his fingertips skim Zuko’s temple. “You’re making me fucking crazy right now.”

Zuko’s still stroking him, a bit faster now, and his lips are barely an inch from the head of Sokka’s cock. “It’s just a blowjob.” He’s smirking. “But it’s cute when you overcompensate.” And he takes Sokka back into his mouth.

“You’re right, you’re right, I need to shut u— _hoh_.” Sokka’s head knocks back against the headboard, his fingers clench in Zuko’s hair. Zuko lets go of the base of his cock, shifts his weight so his hands curve over the side’s of Sokka’s ass, finds a rhythm. Sokka’s shocked he has shit _left_ to lose, but still he loses track of time and the nonsensical nothings he’s mumbling to his boyfriend—fake or not—between his legs, and he tugs in warning at the back of Zuko’s hair, probably says something, too, but Zuko only pulls back enough that he can look up at Sokka with the head of his cock between his lips and swallows when Sokka comes in his mouth with a groan.

Zuko pulls off, lays his cheek to Sokka’s thigh. Sokka feels spent, newly sweaty. Some indeterminate amount of time passes before he blinks down to Zuko, who looks very angelic and rosy despite the slickness on his chin and the corners of his mouth. Sokka pets his hair.

He says, “You didn’t have to—”

“Would’nt’ve if I hadn’t wanted to.” Zuko smiles, faint.

Sokka lifts a brow, zones out on the window. “I don’t know if I could.”

Zuko laughs, then, starts to sit up. Rolls out his shoulders, his neck. “You’re not gonna find out tonight. I’m too tired to give you a dick-sucking lesson.”

Sokka’s eyes dart to Zuko and he guffaws, feels his chest burn a bit because—well, obviously he wants to reciprocate, but. “I’ll accept that,” he mutters, taking Zuko’s hand absently, “even if you slept a whole five hours in the middle of the day—”

“It’s my bedtime now,” counters Zuko, who’s looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand, scraping his blunt nails gently over the middle of Sokka’s palm. It sends tremors up the length of Sokka’s arm. “In California.”

“Ah, is that right?” Sokka asks merrily, and once he gets a good hold on Zuko’s wrist, he tugs him closer with force. “Well, would you look at that? 9:23, Pacific Standard. Though Spirit usually ends at ten, or later…”

There’s a tension to Zuko’s lips that tells Sokka he’s holding back a smile as he curls up sideways in Sokka’s lap, says, “Stop making fun of me.”

Scandalized, Sokka retorts, “I’m not!” and presses his hand to Zuko’s sternum, runs it lower until Zuko, possibly growing impatient, drags it down faster, plunges both their hands down the front of Zuko’s sweats, into his briefs—the tiny black kind he always wears, Sokka knows. “I would never.”

“Sure,” Zuko breathes, and tilts his head onto Sokka’s shoulder. Then he abruptly sits up. “Wait.” He climbs off the bed, lopes toward his bag, ever the dancer in his grace, and Sokka’s head is still fuzzy, so he’s only catching up to the present once Zuko’s back again and tucking a little bottle of lube into Sokka’s hand, slipping out of his joggers and briefs with a quick maneuver.

“You’re so cute,” Sokka states airily, because he _is_ , and he likes to see Zuko undress no matter the context. Except it’s different now—Sokka sees his dick, and he’s hard and so, so pretty and—Sokka’s probably been staring too long.

“Stop,” huffs Zuko meekly, which doesn’t make him any less cute, and he lays on his side beside Sokka, offers him his back, and—oh, god, his ass is cute, too. “Spoon me,” Zuko tells him over his shoulder, and his face is still ruddy. Sokka complies, clutching the lube like he’d lose it if he let it go, and he crowds close to kiss Zuko on the cheek, even if it makes him groan out with what Sokka _thinks_ is put-on frustration. He still can’t read him. Not fully.

“Just, um,” Zuko mumbles, and Sokka feels those muscles in his upper back relax against Sokka’s chest. Sokka’s smart enough, though, connecting some dots despite all the odds against him—those being that he’s still shaken from coming into Zuko’s mouth just a few minutes ago—so he pops the cap on the bottle, gets a good dollop of lube in his hand.

“It’s easier for you, at this angle,” Zuko’s saying, though his head is on the pillow and he’s not really speaking with conviction, slurring a bit like it truly is his bedtime, though his eyes go wide and his hand snaps out to grab Sokka’s wrist when he comes close enough. His reflexes are ridiculous. “Warm it up,” Zuko breathes, then meets Sokka’s eyes over his shoulder. He smiles, timid. “Please.”

“Shit.” Sokka laughs a bit, shifts back and gets up on his elbow to, after a beat of hesitation, rub his hands together. Lovely. “That could’ve been awful. Gave me the blowjob of my life, only to have me stick this on your dick after we spent an hour at freezing subway stations.” He glances at Zuko’s shoulder blade, smiles at a new freckle he spots. “Freshly chilled.”

“Mmm,” hums Zuko. Doesn’t laugh at Sokka’s jokes.

Sokka cranes out his neck. “ _Baby_ , are you falling asleep?”

Zuko grunts. His eyes are indeed closed. “Hurry up.”

“You said you wanted it warmed!”

“Not to a gentle _boil_.”

Sokka has to chuckle at that. With one lubey hand he doesn’t know what to do with, he fits himself again to Zuko’s back. He sacrifices one nearby pillow—there are many—to wipe it off, then lightly kisses Zuko’s warm shoulder, feels the surface of his skin thrum with lasting disbelief that he’s able to tuck his bare knees into the backs of Zuko’s. He crooks his arm over Zuko’s waist, wraps his slick fingers around Zuko’s half-hard cock.

Zuko hums and exhales, and it’s heavenly. “Just like you’d jack yourself off,” he says quietly, and Sokka nods, lips parted over Zuko’s shoulder. He can do that.

“What if I get hard again?” He’s distracted, fuzzy heat rising to his head when he feels Zuko respond to him, cant his hips into Sokka’s pulls, breathe all pretty and nudge his ass against Sokka’s body.

Zuko chuckles, reaches backward behind his head to touch Sokka arbitrarily—his palm lands on Sokka’s shoulder. “You can get off alone in the shower.”

Sokka snorts, and he feels caught in a strange tug-of-war—lips on Zuko’s neck, dizzy with the smell of him, the feel of him hot and hard in his hand, and also the urge to stay lucid, keep up the stupid banter that makes his heart feel all slushy. “I do want to jizz in that shower, actually,” he says meditatively. “Remember how back in the freshman dorms, they warned us not to masturbate in the showers or we’d clog the drains?” He noses over the crook of Zuko’s neck, bites into the flesh, overly pleased to hear that soft sound Zuko’s lips make when they part. “It’d be my way of waging war against the 0.01 percent who stay at this money-bags-out-the-ass hotel.”

Zuko keens as Sokka picks up his pace, and his neck arches back. Sokka smiles into his skin. “You’d—have to jizz a lot to do that. I think.” His voice is barely there.

“I have all of tomorrow, baby,” Sokka says, resolute. “Long as I can look at you, shouldn’t be too hard.”

Zuko breathes out a laugh, whispers, “You’re an idiot,” and then, “Gonna make me…” and Sokka presses up real close, makes sure he’s ready to see it when Zuko spills white on his stomach, on Sokka’s fist. Sokka milks it out of him, his own breath lodged in his throat.

“Good boy,” he murmurs. He brushes a kiss to Zuko’s shoulder, to the corner of his jaw. “So… so good.”

Zuko shifts slightly, glances back at Sokka with hooded eyes. Sokka takes him in, all of him, before he leans in and pecks him on the mouth. “Permission granted to pass the fuck out,” he says smilingly, then sits up, cramping muscles protesting. “I’ll, mm… clean you up. Gimme a sec.” He points his finger. “And don’t use that pillow.” The lubey one.

Zuko nods obediently with faint, sleepy amusement. Sokka rolls off the bed, touches Zuko’s foot as he passes, gives his high arch a squeeze.

Twenty minutes later, the room is dark. In the bathroom, there’s a damp mini towel hanging on a towel bar, probably desperate for the maids to come in and snag it for laundering the following afternoon. They—or _Sokka_ , really—had swept the topmost cover off the bed, so it now lies in a graceless heap on the floor. Sokka’d laughed when he’d discovered there were at least three more layers to the bedding underneath. _Rich fucks._ Zuko’s asleep, curled in on himself, and beside him, Sokka’s reclined, gazing out the window with one arm tucked behind his head. He wonders if Zuko’ll let him sleep in until nine if that’s six on California time. Wonders if he’s doing that math right, because it’s been a long day.

Not long before, he’d fired off a few placating texts to Aang and Katara and his dad on his whereabouts—the former two had been blowing up his phone for hours, the latter had merely wished him safe travels and requested that he _please buy some touristy crap as a birthday present for Bato. The worst you can find_.

Sokka hopes he’ll remember.

He skims his hand up Zuko’s back, counts the freckles he can see under the nightlife lights bleeding inside.

He probably won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)  
> 10 - trouble is a friend (lenka)  
> 11 - the lakes (taylor swift)


	12. 12 - sliding doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [cracks open door] hello my dear zukka nation… didja forget about me (after I cruelly dropped off on updating right after a smut scene lmao)… anyway [awkward laughter] we’re back! and since zukka and miss swift are inextricably intertwined… y’all okay since evermore?? hah,.. ha. just checking…
> 
> thank you endlessly to anyone who’s left kudos and comments (and subscribed?!!) 😔 they mean SO much more to me than you know ♥♥♥ I spend way too long trawling and re-trawling through comments from months ago fr. ps come hmu on [tumblr](https://taotu.tumblr.com) if you hate this chapter and/or I gave you secondhand embarrassment again or you just wanna chat or sumn I’m always lonely. hope everyone is safe and well, pce
> 
> (please keep the tags in mind as always ♥)

It’s ten am and Sokka’s downing his second mimosa in the hotel restaurant.

He smacks his lips, inspecting the glass. For all it has a hefty price tag, he decides it really doesn’t taste too far off from twelve-dollar Safeway Prosecco mixed into discounted Florida Natural orange juice. He hiccups, and feels Zuko’s darkly amused stare before he sees it.

Then the server arrives, unfolds one of those tray stands only needed to unload a tray when it’s especially packed. In front of Sokka’s spot, she sets both a Belgian waffle, piled high with whipped cream and berry compote, and something enticingly savory called _lobster hash_ that’d cost an arm and a leg. Or an arm and both of Sokka’s legs, maybe. They can’t be worth that much. Zuko’s meal is considerably more boring, eggs and home fries and sausage. Sokka swipes the napkin off the table and onto his lap, theatrically and grinningly proclaims his gratitude to the server, whereas Zuko merely nods his thanks and returns that flat stare of his to Sokka.

Sokka’s still holding his mimosa flute, pinkie up. “What?” he says, and his voice reverberates in the glass as he takes a sip.

Zuko picks up his fork and knife, says nothing.

“Fine.” Sokka sets the mimosa down, debates whether to go for sweet or salty first. “I may have decided, in these past twenty-four hours, that your dad’s money tastes a lot better than it sounds.” He cuts into the waffle, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “So… don’t tell me I’m _whistling a different tune_. _Whistling_ my ass. If there’s a hitman coming after me, I should eat like a king.”

Zuko caves, then, smiles down at his plate. “I’m not calling you out,” he mutters. “You’re just… funny.”

Sokka’s fork never makes it to his mouth. He leaves it resting on the edge of his plate as he moves his foot to rub against Zuko’s ankle, which becomes a whole ordeal when his foot never reaches its destination. He’d already managed to forget that not a half hour ago, they’d strolled into the hotel restaurant with arms full of makeshift cold-weather impedimenta in preparation for the day’s high temperature of twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit; Zuko with an actual coat, as Zuko is a person who apparently gets cold and has the foresight to pack a coat when traveling to colder climes, and Sokka with a bundle composed of sweatshirts and layers, some his own, some donations of Zuko’s, on Zuko’s insistence that he couldn’t wear a hoodie with _nothing underneath_ when it’s below freezing outside. Sokka had argued that twenty-five degrees was _nothing_ , that he’d survived even colder with less, until Zuko pointed out that a battle against the elements was an unnecessary one.

So, _yes_ , all that to say that Sokka never gets the toe of his shoe against Zuko’s ankle, as his foot gets trapped in the tangle of garments they’d stuffed under the table. In the panic to free his foot, his knee shoots up against the table’s underside, rattling their dishes and nearly capsizing Sokka’s twenty-some-dollar drink. Zuko catches it in time, flattens his fingers against the base of the glass to steady it on the table’s shaky surface. And once everything has stilled, Sokka smiles sheepishly, picks up his fork and stuffs a bite of waffle into his mouth, because… because he’s an idiot.

Zuko, sliding his hand from Sokka’s mimosa, starts, “What was—”

“That didn’t go as planned,” Sokka explains uselessly around a mouthful of Belgian waffle. It’s worth the arm and two Sokka legs it’s costing Ozai, he decides.

Zuko stares another second. His smile is flummoxed, but it’s there. “Okay.”

“Think your dad would buy us tickets to the top of the One World Trade Center?” Sokka asks abruptly. “I want to go up there. But I bet it’s, like, seventy bucks or something.” Zuko looks like he’s thinking of a response, but Sokka feels awkward suddenly, as if he hasn’t spent collective hours making a fool of himself in front of Zuko that past semester. Why it suddenly matters so much more is… not exactly unclear to him. It’d been just fine in the morning—vibes _companionable_ , even—waking up to the familiar jostle of Zuko climbing out of a bed they’d shared. A statistically common occurrence, though made infinitely more unusual when Zuko’s path to the bathroom wasn’t blocked by the usual clutter of Sokka’s bedroom floor and the windows weren’t sheathed by Sokka’s extra bedsheet hanging from a few crooked nails, but by blackout curtains. “I hope it snows today,” Sokka blurts. “That’d be, like, the best fucking thing ever.”

“It’s cold enough,” murmurs Zuko evenly, when Sokka finally lets him get a word in.

Sokka smiles, faint. “We should also go to Central Park.” He slices into his waffle again, nods in affirmation.

Zuko sets his utensils down, lays his chin in his hand to… _gaze_ at Sokka.

Sokka notices this with a few flickers of his eyes, but hones in on his food. “Does it cost money to skate at that rink under the big famous tree? I feel like we should go show off. I’m pretty good on skates, actually. I can go backwards. Do a hockey stop and everything—though… Rockefeller Center’s probably not the place to be shredding up the ice. And I bet you’re a good skater, too, no? You did ballet. Figure skating is, like... ballet and breakdancing at the same time, just with knives on your feet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He should be expecting it when Zuko rubs at his eyes and says, “I’ve never ice skated before.” He gives Sokka a warning look between his fingers. “And I don’t want to.”

Fate, however, must be on Sokka’s side. Once Sokka’s eaten too much, they’ve left a hefty tip on Ozai’s tab, and they’re bundled up against the cold and strolling into the nearby south-east corner of Central Park, Sokka’s mind is alert from all the sugar in his system. He comprehends immediately why Zuko’s suddenly tugging his elbow toward a branching path opposite their trajectory, because just up ahead, a little girl with a double pom-pom hat is skipping toward a sign for an _ice skating rink_.

Sokka grins, doesn’t budge even against Zuko’s strength, and Zuko whimpers, pained. Sokka says, with conviction, “It’s gonna snow today.”

However much Sokka enjoys the mental image of Zuko being either of two extremes on ice—Tonya Harding or Bambi—Zuko makes a very fair point that he can’t risk injuring himself, which he claims is highly likely, even if the Urban Dance competition isn’t until May. So Sokka’s mental image stays mental, but materializes decidedly as _Bambi_.

And still, Zuko is probably expecting the worst when Sokka tells him to wait at the rink entrance and jogs off, only to return shortly with a cup of hot chocolate in each hand and no ice skates in sight. He walks backward, nods down the path past the rink entrance, and Zuko looks at him strangely, eyes barely visible as his beanie flattens his bangs straight down over them. For a short-lived instant, Sokka thinks he might just have to stride backward through Central Park _alone_ as a doofus with a hot chocolate in each hand and his hoodie strings bow-tied tightly at his chin (not to mention the Michelin Man-esque appearance his bulky layers give him), but Zuko follows.

* * *

Sokka horrendously miscalculates just how much those five minutes between subway trains will cost them when he waves off a particularly stuffed one—people standing shoulder to shoulder, arms dangling with obnoxiously large holiday-imagery-emblazoned bags reading _Bloomingdales_ or _Barneys_ or _Eataly_ —and casually tells Zuko they can catch the next.

That next one is just as, if not more, crowded. Sokka stands with his front pasted to Zuko’s back, and the train stalls several times in the darkness between platforms when they’re halfway to Lower Manhattan.

Sokka can feel Zuko grow impatient with the abrupt starts and stops. Then, tersely, he twists in Sokka’s arms and demands that they get off at the next platform they reach, and it’s only when they clamber out of the stuffy underground and reach the cold outdoors again, Sokka turning in a circle to reorient himself with the map on his phone, that Sokka realizes the sun is setting and their time slot at the observatory is rapidly approaching and, most importantly, they have fifteen north-south blocks to sprint in ten minutes. Before he tells Zuko so, Sokka takes a breath, releases it and watches it fizzle as vapor into the air, prays that the gods of walk sign lights will be on their side.

Inside the lobby of the One World Trade Center, Sokka dabs at the sweat beading on his forehead with the outermost of his three hoods. Zuko seems unbothered—if a little red from the cold—somehow _less_ bothered than he’d been when Sokka’d first told him they’d need to run for their lives. Goddamn dancer’s endurance.

Sokka’s still panting a bit, shifting onto his tiptoes to peer over the line to the elevator, when he asks, “Think we’ll make it up before the sun’s set?” And when Zuko says nothing for a prolonged moment, Sokka’s head turns, expectant.

Zuko’s watching him readily, but his blink is owlish. His hands are still deep in his coat pockets, which is absurdly and distressingly cute to Sokka. At the rate at which _this_ —this unreasonable internal distress, this fixation on Zuko’s most mundane habits—is progressing, he has to wonder if Zuko doing something like clipping his toenails will suddenly yank at his heartstrings. “Oh, what?” mumbles Zuko.

“I said—” Sokka falters, and his eyes narrow. He turns bodily to face Zuko. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

For a second, Zuko hesitates. “It’s just…” Then he reaches for Sokka’s hoodie, pinches at the visibly sweat-damp fabric Sokka’d just repurposed as a towel. “This is… kind of gross.”

Sokka tries his hardest to give Zuko a deadpan look, but the laugh bubbles out of him before he can lock down his poker face. “Go easy on me, that was the hardest I’ve run since middle school gym class.” He eyes Zuko, takes a sideways step when the line lurches forward a few feet, and decidedly digs his fingertip into Zuko’s cheek. “And don’t talk to me about _gross_. You’re literally always sweating all over my bed, dancer boy.”

Without turning his head, Zuko averts his eyes toward the family with small children queueing directly behind them. His lips are parted as he looks back at Sokka and recoils from his finger. “Fucking quiet down if you’re gonna say shit like that,” he breathes, voice hushed, and there’s a grin at the edges of his lips.

Sokka would apologize if he could compel himself to do anything other than gaze with a vague, woozy sort of contentment at Zuko’s face. “I’m disappointed with myself that the double entendre was accidental,” Sokka hears himself say, and he’s tempted to give himself a pat on the back just for subconsciously multitasking: talking to Zuko and looking at Zuko.

 _God_. The bar is low.

With amusement in his eyes, Zuko touches the back of Sokka’s elbow, nudges him to face front.

A troupe of kids behind Sokka and Zuko in a furious rush to get to the panoramic windows barrels out of the elevator when the doors drift open; one in particular forges her path between the gap of Zuko’s legs, at which Sokka promptly hoots out a laugh and Zuko rolls his eyes, deliberately narrows his stance as he steps out.

The thick clouds are streaks of teal and indigo, but visible between them are slivers of a warm, gradient sky, sun sinking beyond the distant, misty horizon of New Jersey. Sokka says not a word as he takes Zuko by the hand, makes a beeline for the nearest open spot not occupied by selfie-takers or throngs of tourists. Below, the city is a concentrated constellation of lights, wide streets glowing intensely like they’re flowing with the lava of cars stuck in traffic.

At Sokka’s side, Zuko surveys the city meditatively. His eyes roam, like he’s taking it all in, and his grip on Sokka’s hand is steadfast, inexplicably reassuring. Sokka wishes they were on a deck outside, wishes there was chilly wind in their faces so the tip of Zuko’s nose would glow red again or so he’d have an excuse to crowd Zuko up against some hypothetical railing for a dramatic reenactment of the _Titanic_ ‘I’m flying!’ scene, even if he’d likely have to barter with Zuko just to get him to say the damn words, much less with the awestruck breathlessness of Rose Dewitt Bukater.

It occurs to Sokka, then, that Zuko’s probably also never seen _Titanic_. His mental backlog of educational media grows longer with each passing day spent in Zuko’s presence.

Sokka’s eyes trace the long, gentle slope of Zuko’s nose. His blood seems to whiz audibly through his chest, up his neck and inside his ears, buzzing lowly, comfortingly in its rush to heat Sokka’s face. And simultaneously, he wishes Zuko would look right back at him, but also that he wouldn’t, so Sokka would be free to observe him endlessly, free of null excuses like shame or awkwardness.

“I think you’re gonna regret not looking outside when you had the chance,” mutters Zuko out the corner of his mouth, eyes not leaving the window. And Sokka’s first instinct is to smile, to find it funny before he fully understands that he’s the butt of the joke.

“I’m looking over there,” Sokka claims after a moment of sputtering, pointing a finger past Zuko’s head.

Zuko follows his finger toward the far windows. “Ah,” he answers lightly.

“Yeah.” Sokka props his free hand against the wall, leans into it. At least Zuko couldn’t hear the sweeping orchestral accompaniment to Sokka’s staring that’d been playing triumphantly inside his head and had record-scratched to a halt at Zuko’s interruption. Sokka’s lips purse in a slight grimace. “Do you ever think, like, most big-city views from high up all look the same?”

Zuko snorts. “You’re the one who wanted to come up here.”

“I guess my FOMO got trigger-happy with your dad’s credit card.”

Sokka catches Zuko’s small smile out of the corner of his eye. “Speaking of my father’s credit card,” says Zuko, scratching his jaw, “Nobu’s a five minute walk from here.”

Sokka merely blinks. “Like, the restaurant?”

Zuko’s lips purse up, and he nods. “I might’ve made a reservation.”

“Did you.” Sokka blinks a few times. Grins. Decides not to press any further. They’re living on borrowed dollars and Zuko has his ways—maybe Ozai went to college with the owner’s son. “Is this you daring me to walk into fucking _Nobu_ wearing three sweatshirts?”

Zuko nods calmly, eyes on the horizon line. He checks the time on his phone with a little tilt of his chin that Sokka examines far too closely. “You should probably take them all off, you know. One by one. Once we’re inside.” He sighs, shrugs a shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to be, y’know… uncomfortable.”

Sokka turns his smile to the window, feigns interest in their positively postcard-esque view and gnaws on the inside of his lower lip. “I can’t tell if you want me to piss off a room full of influencers and local celebrities and rich-fuck tourists or if you just find some kind of sadistic pleasure in me publicly making a fool of myself.”

Zuko says nothing, just lifts Sokka’s hand to give the back of it a gentle pat.

“You’re quiet.”

Zuko taps his chopsticks together, peeks at Sokka behind those heavy bangs as he says, “Not any more than usual.”

Sokka means to form a rebuttal, but there’s a high chance Zuko’s right. Since the end of August, he and Zuko have spent… a decent chunk of time together, and much of it in comfortable silence once Sokka’d jabbered himself out. And, without having to think for even a second, Sokka could put a finger on why that silence feels different now. But there’s nothing _definitive_ , nothing they’ve explicitly _said_ or agreed upon that would… legitimize that difference for him.

“Listen,” says Zuko, and his chopsticks clatter against the plate as he lets them go and scoots to the edge of his booth. They’re at the very end of a row of intimately-lit booths, low to the ground, and Sokka’s made eye contact at least thrice over Zuko’s shoulder with the old dude eating alone in the next booth over. He also thinks that on his way to the bathroom earlier, he’d spotted that one gangly actor his age who’s in every possible movie right now, the one Katara claims is cute much to Aang’s dismay (they look nothing alike). That’s beside the point, though, when Zuko’s making rare, deliberate eye contact with him.

Sokka sets his own chopsticks down, hurries to finish chewing his bite of sashimi.

“I should’ve… brought it up earlier.” Zuko looks at the table, rubs at a spot on his chin. “It’s been bothering me.” Sokka’s heart lurches a little— _no big deal_. “But, like… you were so nice about it.” Zuko’s sigh is almost one of distress, a grimace tensing his features as his fingers search for something to pick at, like the divot in the table’s edge he worries his fingernail into. “Me dragging you all the way to my father’s, kind of having a meltdown at the smallest provocation.” He laughs, but it’s just a breath, humorless. “It’s embarrassing. Feels even more embarrassing now than it did when it happened. But, like. I just didn’t want to think about it.” It’s an infinitesimal movement when he shrugs his shoulder. “But I should’ve brought it up.”

Sokka watches him, palms glued and pressed tightly together between his knees. He realizes they’ve both gravitated to hunching over the table, and gives a soft shake of his head, frowns. “It’s totally none of my business, Zuko. You don’t… owe me an explanation, you know. And… I wasn’t being _nice_ , really. Just… I’m on your side, you know? Like, okay, you tell me you don’t have a great relationship with your dad? That’s fine. I’m on your side. You tell me he’s a complete asshole? Yeah, I totally believe it. Saw it for myself, but I would’ve believed it.” He chuckles, wary, and tries to sit up, roll his shoulders back from his ears. “I… definitely could’ve dealt with him with a bit more… _grace_ , maybe. Made things less stressful for you.” Sokka stares at Zuko’s hand on the opposite edge of the table, quells the urge to close the gap between them and take it. “I got a little enthusiastic.”

Zuko cracks a smile, eyes still cast downward. Sokka’s heart does a triple-axel jump. “No, that was nice.”

 _“Nice?”_ Sokka chuckles. “You seem to think I’m the _nicest_ guy ever today.”

“Maybe.” Zuko sits back, huffs out a quiet laugh. Pauses. “I liked it. Hearing someone talk about… my dancing like that.” And, swifter than he’s moved in the last ten minutes, he scratches at his neck, pinches at the skin as he smiles tightly, stares into the lacquered wood grain of the table. Sokka can see a flush creep up his neck. “Sorry, I think I just made it weird.”

“What?” Sokka breathes, laughing in disbelief. “No—what? No. You’re—you’re allowed to talk about your feelings, Zuko.” He lifts an eyebrow, and the devil on his shoulder belts a maniacal, twisted little laugh and sneers: _well, why don’t you start?_ “And you care about dancing, obviously. You’re talented. Feels good when someone talks about your talents, just. Generally speaking.” Sokka licks his lips, goes finger by finger with his thumb to crack each knuckle until he speaks again. “People talk about your dancing _like that_ all the time, Zuko. Mai and Ty Lee, obviously. And Aang, especially after the showcase. For the whole week after, I’d come home to him sitting in the kitchen watching Latin dance competitions on Youtube, picking out every move like _ugh, Zuko could do that better._ ”

“Oh, god.” Zuko rubs his fingers into his eyelids. Sokka can hear the fondness dripping from his tone, can see it in the twitch of his lips. “But… that’s different. I meant… I just want him to think I’m doing well. My father. I want him to think I’m doing well.” He lowers his hands to his lap. “And I want that to make him mad.”

Sokka falters slightly, thrown for a loop. He can’t look away from Zuko, but there’s simply nothing on the tip of his tongue, and he blames himself for the newfound furrow in Zuko’s brow. He taps the fat ends of his chopsticks on the table, conscience in a twisted knot. “You… you think seeing you happy would really make him mad?” asks Sokka.

“Not think. I know.” Zuko shrugs, folds his arms over his chest, sets his elbows on the table’s edge. “Nothing I ever did was good enough for him when I was a kid. It wasn’t enough to just be good at _something_. I had to be good at something he _wanted_ me to be good at, like…” He snorts. “Math or public speaking or brown-nosing influential people. Azula… she did it all straight out of the womb, and, like… clearly she got all the genes my father thought he gave me.”

At once, Sokka’s glad for it. Glad that Zuko’s opening up to him, even if it might be ephemeral, confined to this dinner table in Lower Manhattan that Sokka will probably never again see in his life. But for all he treasures it, he also finds himself fretting—sweating a bit, too—that he’ll say the wrong thing. “She is kind of a powerhouse,” mutters Sokka, “in all the obvious ways, at least.”

Zuko smiles, glances up at Sokka for one, two seconds. “Yeah.”

“Sounds kind of shitty, though. Growing—growing up around that.” Sokka sees—not feels—himself settle his hands on the table, one upturned palm cupped in the other. “ _That_ , meaning… I don’t know how I would’ve felt when Katara was winning essay contests and going off to regional spelling bees and I could still never spell Mississippi right if my dad hadn’t, y’know, been all,” he pitches his voice low, “ _son, you have your strengths and Katara has hers. You can’t be good at everything_. That was, of course, back when I thought I was the artist of the family, so at least I had _that_ on Katara.” He chuckles. “Turns out there’s just no artist in the family.”

With visible tentativeness, Zuko places his hand in the cradle of Sokka’s. Sokka’s eyes flash upward with alarming speed, but by the looks of it, Zuko’s only watching it as Sokka’s thumbs press into the backs of his own knuckles. Zuko smiles warmly, and his palm is warm in Sokka’s hands, and fucking _hell_ , they’re holding hands across a table in public, and Sokka’s heart is pumping too much blood to his face for having already held Zuko’s hand outside in public earlier. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… turn this into a therapy session,” says Zuko, sheepish. The dim light catches on his irises as they track a waiter who sweeps past.

“Baby, we’ve talked about your dad for two minutes,” Sokka says flatly.

Zuko’s smile goes wide at that, and Sokka unequivocally aches. “Shut up.” He rubs at his nose with his free hand. This reminds Sokka that his other hand is very much not free, trapped in Sokka’s steadfast hold. “I just wanted to… make things make sense. For you.” And Zuko’s still not looking at him, but he cuts in right as Sokka opens his mouth to speak, like he knows it’s coming. “I know, you already said I don’t… _owe it_ to you, or whatever. But I trust… you. I trust you, so I want it to make sense for you.”

Sokka promptly shuts his mouth. His throat feels a bit swollen, almost like he’s had baclava he didn’t know had hazelnuts in it. Or perhaps just like he couldn’t accept Zuko’s trust if he tried, at least not with the ceremony it deserves.

“I think… I’m gonna try to never see him again,” murmurs Zuko. His thumb slots with Sokka’s. “If I can manage it.”

Sokka nods quickly, attentive.

“I just hope Jennie isn’t expecting kids from him,” Zuko continues. Out of the corner of his eye, Sokka sees their server approaching from the depths of the restaurant, and when they lock gazes, he gives a faint jerk of his chin. She smiles and heads in a perpendicular direction. “I think about that all the time. Like… it was kind of shitty, yeah, when I was too young to realize I’d never get his approval, but… I don’t know what he’s like anymore. I don’t know if it’d be the same for a new kid… or if it’d be worse. I just can’t see him ever changing.”

Sokka’s lips press tightly together. “Does Jennie know?” he asks. His voice comes out half-hoarse. “How he treated you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure she knows something’s always been… off.” Zuko rubs a hand over the side of his face, scrubbing over the inner corner of his eye. His fingers still over the faint, rippled skin of his scar, and he blinks, slow. Sokka wonders what he’s picturing when his eyes trace the contours of the table so intently. “But I’m willing to bet he fed her the same old bullshit if she ever asked him what happened to my face.”

“Bullshit?” Either the buzz of the room gets noticeably louder, or Sokka’s voice that much softer.

“Yeah.” Zuko hefts a sigh, chuckles drily. “Like, as the old tale goes, I didn’t _mean_ to drop the pot of hot water.” He lowers his hand from his cheek, digs his thumbnail into the crack in the table. Again. “But it’s also, y’know, seasoned with little details that are almost true, like… _Zuko’s never clumsy_ , but I was thirteen and having a growth spurt and we were all _stressed_ because my mother was sick and there was a lot going on.” He pauses. “To, you know. Make it believable.”

Sokka feels as if the air in his lungs thins. If it hurts Zuko to have Sokka’s fingers tighten around his hand the way they do, he shows no indication of it. “Zuko…”

“But I never even told anyone the truth. I was too…” He doesn’t finish. “Sorry. Was that crass? I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“I could’ve killed him.”

“What?” Zuko lifts his eyes, breathes out a quiet laugh.

“I was closer to him at that dinner than I am to you right now.” Sokka eases his hold on Zuko’s hand but doesn’t let go, just shakes him gently for emphasis. “I… _could_ have killed him,” he says with conviction, eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

Zuko hums, looks at their hands awhile. “I like you better outside of jail.”

“I’d like it better if he was in jail.”

Zuko looks him in the eye flatly. “Sokka, it’s been almost ten years. There’s not much I can do about it now, except… tell Jennie, maybe.”

Sokka’s thumbs trace the bones in the back of Zuko’s hand. Then, “I’m sorry.”

Zuko’s gaze is unwavering, steady for so long that in Sokka’s field of vision, the room begins to blur around Zuko’s shape in a dark vignette. Then Zuko’s eyes flit to the table, and it should break the spell, but it doesn’t. Sokka looks on, and Zuko murmurs, “I just… trust you, so.”

Sokka’s heart gives a pitiful squeeze. “Thank you.”

Zuko directs his smile at the table, but softly, he responds, “You’re welcome.”

They’re ten paces from the subway stop when Sokka spots that first, fateful snowflake that catches on Zuko’s eyelashes.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, then lugs Zuko toward the shuttered display windows of the nearest store so they aren’t bowled over by a wave of New Yorkers who actually know where they’re headed.

“What?” huffs Zuko, eyes searching the passersby. His ever-warm hand is caged with Sokka’s in the kangaroo-pouch pocket of Sokka’s hoodie.

“Holy shit.” Sokka grins. Night has fallen but the city is far from dark, and in the glow of the streetlights and headlights and glaring signs for _nail salon_ this and _pizzeria_ that, Sokka can see snowflakes flurry in the air.

When Sokka looks over, Zuko’s smile looks almost pained. Yet… somehow authentic. “Congratulations, your wish came true,” he tells him blankly, then nods toward the subway stop on the corner. “We can—”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Sokka breathes out, unpocketing his free hand to squeeze Zuko’s cheeks with his cold fingertips. “In fact, Zuko, we _cannot_. Who knows how long this’ll last? I can’t have my first glimpse of snow since January only to dive straight underground _,_ are you _joking?”_

Zuko appears genuinely pained this time, brow in a scrunch. “It’s cold,” he struggles to mumble through Sokka’s grip on his face, but Sokka shows him no mercy, if only because it pinches his lips up all pouted like that.

Sokka gruntingly shakes his head. “Ah, you’ll live. The hotel’s like a hundred blocks away. Just give me five and we can get on your precious, steamy subway that I thought you hated.” He gives Zuko’s cheek a pat, swivels him around by the shoulders, and latches onto his waist tightly.

As Sokka marches them directly past the subway stop, marveling at the snowflakes against the backdrop of the black sky, sticking to the sleeve of his hoodie or meeting their demises in puddles iridescent with spilled oil and reflected light, he feels the pull of Zuko in his periphery. And when he looks, just with his eyes, not obvious enough to draw Zuko’s attention, he can see his lips have pulled into a begrudging smile. _Victory_ , thinks Sokka. _Home run, touchdown. Everything._

He’s about to ask Zuko if he’s actually _that_ cold when he freezes at the sight of… well, _the holy grail_ , propped up beside mismatched mannequins in myriad _I heart New York_ merchandise. Sokka gravitates toward the store window, of course not letting go of Zuko, whose feet drag with every step.

“I need it,” Sokka whispers. Clears his throat. “For Bato, I mean. I need it.” He points a finger at the _NYC Taxi Drivers 2021_ calendar. “That guy’s shirtless and eating cake off his cab. Bato _needs_ it.” He laughs, loud and joyous. “Happy fucking birthday.”

“Please never get me a gift,” says Zuko, and Sokka smilingly squeezes his waist.

“Let’s go in.” He takes a step toward the store entrance, but that time, Zuko doesn’t budge. He’s stock-still, cheeks pinkened by the cold.

“What happened to reveling in the snowfall?” asks Zuko. Sokka rolls his eyes when he sees the smirk start to play at the corners of his lips.

“This is important!” he states shrilly. “Bato has never in his life needed anything more than a calendar of hairy taxi drivers!”

“Right.” Zuko smiles, twists his way out of Sokka’s grip. “You go.”

Sokka gapes, scandalized. “Are you _ditching_ me?!” He grabs onto both of Zuko’s arms, eyes round. “ _Baby_ —”

“No, god, calm down,” Zuko hisses, shoves Sokka back a step. “I’m just gonna go in—in there. Okay?” He points at the drugstore directly next door. “Meet me out here once you’ve…” Zuko lifts an eyebrow at the storefront behind Sokka. “Made your conquest.”

Sokka feels the urge to ask if this is some _rich person thing_ , if Zuko, on principle, does not enter gift shops that sell mass-manufactured t-shirts and umbrellas that break explosively the first time one dares to use the opening mechanism, but then a woman exits the drugstore, holds the door, and Zuko promptly dips inside, leaving Sokka to idle alone beside a stranger smoking a cigarette. _Right_.

Sokka snatches up a little snow globe filled with skyscrapers for Katara while he’s waiting in line to pay. For a moment, he has to wonder if it’ll count as transporting liquid in his carry-on luggage, decides he’ll take the risk even when he flashes back to the first time he’d flown to the States and had his plastic lightsaber confiscated as a weapon at security check.

He proudly purchases his calendar and steps back out into the cold, where he attempts to wrestle his triple-layered hood back on his head as a single unit. Naturally, it gets caught on his ears, so he’s painstakingly tugging on each hood when Zuko steps out from the store, also with a white plastic bag dangling from his fingertips. Sokka ties up his outermost hood in a bow, then pinches open the pouch pocket of his hoodie like an offer for Zuko’s hand to come make its home inside.

Zuko cracks a smile, but looks uncertain as he moves closer. “Um,” he’s starting, just as Sokka’s reaching for his bag and imploring, “I’ve got it.”

Zuko whips the bag out of reach. Sokka startles, arm still outstretched. The snow flurries on, the people trudge past. “Um,” Zuko says again, and he looks beyond Sokka and into the street, at the gridlock of cars waiting at the red light. “Listen…”

Sokka shuffles toward him, eyebrow cocked, and finally lowers his arm. “To be honest, I can’t really _listen_ that well through all these hoods,” he admits, loosening the bow. He blinks expectantly at Zuko, who seems bizarrely evasive out of the blue, and then at the bag, dangling at his side in a white-knuckled grip.

Zuko just snorts at first.

“Are you fake-breaking-up with me?” whispers Sokka teasingly, and he means it as a joke. A complete, utter joke, as in... at this point, he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. He does know, though, that it’s been months that felt like both years and days since they first brought up that fake breakup in the parking lot behind Bumi’s dorm.

“No, I’m not,” says Zuko, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, letting it go. Slowly. “I’m not… I don’t want to pressure you.” He ties the handles of the plastic bag together, then means to slip them undone, but he’d pulled the knot a bit too tight. “I just thought I would… like, just in case… if we both wanted, and in case you didn’t have any, but…” He gives a quick jerk of his head, and Sokka’s sweating in the freezing night just watching Zuko tug the knot free with tremors in his hands. “We don’t have to,” he finishes, quiet, buried by the clamor of the city.

Sokka blinks perhaps five times. “Zuko, if you just gave me dots to connect, I’m sorry, but I _definitely_ failed—”

Zuko tugs Sokka’s plastic bag open, sets his own inside, handles drawn apart so Sokka can see.

Oh.

Sokka blinks again, then serenely closes the bags. “Well, hope you got a receipt. Those’ll be too small,” he tells Zuko matter-of-factly.

“Shut up, no they won’t,” Zuko breathes, choking out a laugh and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He’s still looking at the cars. Then he adds, “Got a pretty good idea last night.”

Sokka bears the weight of a most foreign surge of feelings—dizzy-headedness, heat prickling from his cheeks to his toes, a silly, wiggly feeling in his chest. “Fuck,” he whispers, licks his lips to tamp down on a smirk. Peers up at the sky, rolls his tense shoulders out.

“I’m cold,” Zuko whispers back, face ever so pink, eyes knowing but fixated elsewhere.

Softly: “I know, baby.” Sokka beckons Zuko’s hand from his pocket to greedily hole it away in his own. Suddenly, the snow doesn’t seem so important, and Sokka reckons there has to be another subway stop coming up soon if they just walk up a few blocks. When he takes a step, Zuko follows, and Sokka risks walking head-on into traffic with the way he can’t tear his eyes from Zuko’s profile, at the sweetness of the embarrassment and shyness he finds there. “You thought I would’ve changed my mind since, like… two nights ago?” he asks.

Zuko shrugs, saves Sokka from certain death by actually stopping at the curb before the crosswalk. “Thought maybe you wouldn’t be in the mood.”

Sokka’s forehead scrunches at that. “Oh, I am.”

“Oh.”

A wide smile spreads across Sokka’s cheeks. Zuko stares determinedly ahead, but a beat later, he smiles in that sweet, tight-lipped way of his, too.

“And you were right,” Sokka muses as the walk sign turns white, “I did _not_ bring any condoms with me.”

“Mm.” Zuko’s chuckle is flustered. “Low expectations for this trip?”

“Hey, okay, _A_ , I was in a rush to pack because _someone_ told me about our flight literal _hours_ before, and _B_ , you were standing _right there_ in my room! What was I supposed to do? Dig out the box of condoms I haven’t even looked at since I had a girlfriend and go _oh, yeah, for all that sex we’ll be having, Zuko_?”

Zuko’s eyes practically bulge out of his head but his laugh is bright and beautiful. “Quiet the fuck down,” he scolds, shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ll push you into traffic.” He chances a glance to his left—again, a gridlock of cars. “When it starts moving,” amends Zuko.

“And _C_ ,” Sokka continues, employing selective hearing, “I had _no_ preexisting expectations for a trip like _this_.” He clicks his tongue, turns a wry smile on Zuko. “And now?” Slowly, he nods. “The expectations. They’re high. So goddamn high.”

With his boot, Zuko neatly clips Sokka in the ankle. “Don’t get used to it.”

After a twenty-minute subway ride of breathing stuffy, shared air, Sokka greets those ludicrous trees growing inside the hotel lobby like old friends. At least Sokka’d been able to rest his legs—Zuko had refused to take the open seat, so Sokka had, and then he’d proceeded to ignore Sokka’s every enticing gesture to just _sit in his fucking lap_ whilst Zuko made faces at the child who’d tugged on the hem of his coat and the cyclist who’d crammed their bike into the packed car and jabbed Zuko with one of the pedals.

“Do you think there’s an indoor tree tax they have to pay?” Sokka questions, sidling up to Zuko in the elevator. And when Zuko threatens to step out just as the doors are closing, Sokka laughingly grabs him by the back of his coat, reels him back in.

On the fourteenth floor, Sokka stands aside to let Zuko open the door to 1412. Briefly, he wonders if it says something about him that he’d forgotten key cards were a thing, that he’d blindly entrusted their safekeeping to Zuko while they gallivanted about the city.

The room is tidy; throw pillows arranged like fallen dominos on the couch, the bed, with all its layers, made masterfully, any remnants of their existence wiped but for their bags lying on the floor. Outside the windows, the night is pitch black, and as they step out of their shoes and outer clothes, Zuko turns on a table lamp that casts the immediate space in golden lamplight.

In the bedroom, Sokka sets the plastic bag down on the bedsheets, which are pulled tight as a drum. The first thing he pulls out is his prized _NYC Taxi Drivers 2021_ calendar, cradles it like a newborn.

“You gonna have a hard time giving that away?” asks Zuko with a chuckle, sitting unexpectedly close on the edge of the bed. His bangs are staticky from his hat, a few hairs flying this way and that. Sokka hums in thought, tosses it toward the mess of his bag.

“Maybe. I could just gift it to myself. Would you mind if I just, like, stuck it on the ceiling? Right above my bed?”

Zuko snorts. “It’s your ceiling.”

Sokka raises a contrary finger, taps the air with it. “But what if I put it right above your side?”

For a moment, Zuko says nothing. He curls his fingers into the mattress, slides his socked toes along the carpeted floor. “It’s still your ceiling.”

“Well, fine. Special offer, limited time only. With every ownership of a side of the bed, I’ll throw in a side of the ceiling at no further cost,” states Sokka. When Zuko only looks his way with a furrow in his brow, Sokka spreads his arms. “It’s an offer you can’t—”

Zuko clamps his hand loosely over Sokka’s mouth. “This is a pointless conversation.”

When Zuko tentatively lowers his hand, Sokka’s pouting. “Does every conversation have to have a point?” He shoves the plastic bag off the bed, ignores its soft _thump_ against the carpet as he steps toward Zuko, pats his palms onto Zuko’s bent knees. “Can’t you talk to me _solely_ for the pleasure that comes with listening to my dulcet tones?”

 _“Pleasure?”_ utters Zuko, and with such incredulity that Sokka physically fights a grin and also physically jostles Zuko onto the mattress by his shoulders, climbing atop him with little finesse but bountiful enthusiasm.

“What did we say about your little shit-ness?” Sokka grits out, going for stern but probably verging on hysterical. Zuko’s on his back now, with Sokka’s knees sandwiching his hipbones. And somehow, his arms are casually folded over his chest like he’s waiting in line at the fucking bank.

“You said I should get it checked out,” he parrots, and purses his lips to blow his bangs from his eyes, gives a flick of his chin. They flop away from his forehead.

Sokka smiles, perhaps because Zuko remembers, perhaps because of the goofiness of it all. He sits back, decides Zuko’s lap is more comfortable than he might’ve thought.

Zuko, still supine, uncrosses his arms and lays his hands on Sokka’s thighs. “Sokka,” he says, a bit hushed.

“Zuko.” Sokka affixes him with a stony look, and Zuko huffs a breath out his nose.

“Um.” Zuko’s fingers are long, elegant. It sends lightning up Sokka’s spine that sparks in his brain when he drags them up and down the way he does. “Earlier, when you said…”

Sokka watches Zuko’s eyelashes. When a few seconds pass and he doesn’t fill in the blank, Sokka supplies, “When I said I wanted to rob the M&Ms store?”

Zuko’s tongue presses to the inside of his cheek with a half-smirk. “No, not that.”

“When I lied and said I was just looking out the window at the observation deck?”

Zuko chuckles. His blunt fingernails on the stretched fabric of Sokka’s jeans call every nerve ending to attention. “That’s… not news to me, just so you’re aware.”

“Rude.” On impulse, he threads his fingers into Zuko’s, if only to save his stupid heart a few palpitations should Zuko keep up his fiddling. “Earlier, when I said I still wanted to have sex with you?” he says finally, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

Zuko looks up and takes a quiet breath. “Yeah, that.”

Sokka shifts slightly. “What about it?”

“Was it pretend?”

“What?” Sokka chokes out a laugh, but Zuko’s eyes are grave. Sincere.

“Were you pretending when you said that?”

Sokka makes a minuscule, disbelieving shake of his head. “What—why would I have been pretending?”

“You know why,” murmurs Zuko vaguely.

Sokka’s eyes flicker to the window. Then he squeezes Zuko’s hand, hopes his awkward smile doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels. “I… no. I wasn’t pretending, Zuko.” A thousand thoughts rush through his head, all illegible and scrambled. “But… you know, when we _did_ pretend, you know, that one time, and I asked you how we’d go about it…”

“ _We_ was hypothetical,” says Zuko, and, _oh_ , now he’s smiling, the little shit.

Sokka licks his lips, drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Sokka feels like he’s under a heat map, highly aware of the heat that flares in orangey-red blotches in his every cell, because Zuko’s tugging his hand free, running both his palms up Sokka’s hips and to his waist. They sear handprints through his shirt, thumbprints where his thumbs press into the soft parts of Sokka’s stomach. “You can fuck me, if you want,” Zuko whispers. “We won’t do anything you… you’re uncertain about.” Sokka zones out on the heavy way Zuko’s chest rises and falls. “I’ll help you.”

There’s white noise in Sokka’s head as Zuko’s words play on a loop, white heat. “You want that?” he asks, dizzy.

Zuko’s smile turns coy. His nod is faint but sure, makes Sokka’s face burn vulnerably. “Yeah, I’d like that.” His hands snake to Sokka’s back, urging him forward. “Come kiss me.”

Feeling whiplashed, Sokka slowly pitches forward so his hands are on the mattress, fingers brown against the canvas of the creamy sheets and the dark streaks of Zuko’s hair. _Kiss Zuko?_ Yes, he can do that. He knows how to do _that_ , at the very least. But instead he just hovers above him, staring down into Zuko’s eyes. Golden, somehow soaking up every trace of light in the dim room, mirroring it back like starlight. Frozen, Sokka breathes, “I don’t know how to…”

Zuko grins, slides his palms up Sokka’s back, brings one to his cheek. “Thank god, honestly,” he says, and his thumb traces Sokka’s lip with such gentleness it tickles. “You can’t always be a know-it-all.”

Sokka gapes so fast his jaw cracks, because the little shit meter is now on _fire_ , but he doesn’t have time to inform Zuko, who gets up on an elbow and kisses him on his open mouth, wet and dirty.

Sokka shouldn’t be so surprised when Zuko overpowers him—he’d already been taken aback, pliant in his nerves and hesitance—and turns Sokka onto his back. He oftentimes forgets Zuko’s strength, though logically he knows it takes a particular brand of it to move with the elegance and poise that he does.

Zuko settles himself heavily on Sokka’s thighs, tangles his fingers into Sokka’s hair, and he’s a hair’s breadth from kissing Sokka again when he stills, close enough that Sokka can feel his warm breath over his lips. “You okay?” whispers Zuko, and Sokka instantly wonders whether he should be embarrassed that Zuko’d felt the need to ask the same thing last night, wonders if he looks as much like a deer in headlights as he feels.

“Yeah,” he breathes quickly, but it’s like the world outside his body is running at hyperspeed, like his brain is made of sludge and his limbs are coursing with crawling, molten lava and they simply can’t keep up. He watches Zuko’s lips thin, then finally dares to touch, if only to smooth out the tension there with his fingers on Zuko’s cheek. “It’s… just. Usually, like, it’s easier to think about it than do it, right? With most… most _it_ s.” He inhales deep, allows his fingertips to graze Zuko’s chest, hard and broad above him, and— _fuck_. “But this is, like. It’s already hard to just think about.”

Zuko smiles a little. Sokka’s staring at his chest again, its rise and fall. “Sokka—”

“Don’t—I know we don’t have to.” Sokka’s laugh is weak, bashful. “I know, believe me. But I’ll probably implode if I don’t get to touch you now, it’s just.” He cracks out another laugh, can feel his head going fuzzy with the strange, oncoming wave of timidity. “I don’t… know. What to do.”

Zuko strokes Sokka’s hair behind his ear with a featherlight touch, leans his weight into one arm. The movement the muscles in his shoulder flex and Sokka can only think: _holy shit_. “You did it yesterday, you know,” murmurs Zuko, smiling crookedly.

Sokka attempts to desist from his anatomical analysis of Zuko. “What?”

“You did it yesterday.” Zuko rocks his hips against him, gentle. Sokka can feel everything. “Made me feel good.”

Sokka would say he doesn’t like the dark edge to Zuko’s eyes, but it’d be a blatant lie. “It was… the first—”

Zuko laughs. “Yeah, okay, but for your first time touching someone else’s dick, it was good. I promise.” He lowers down to kiss Sokka’s cheek, under his jaw. “You were so sweet to me.”

Hearing Zuko merely _talk_ about Sokka touching his dick shouldn’t make Sokka squirm with need the way it does, considering he’s already fucking done it. He’s cooler than he thinks he is, as he’s already gotten into Zuko’s pants once, for fuck’s sake, so why is he so flustered _today?_

Zuko’s teeth scrape his neck and Sokka shudders. _Feelings_ , yeah. That might be it. Spring is nearing and he’s filled with a whole pond of feelings, the ice on its surface growing thinner and thinner until it’ll inevitably crack and melt.

Sokka hums, mindless, and his hands are on Zuko’s back since—since he doesn’t know when, but then Zuko’s sitting back to tug his shirt off and Sokka burns just beholding him.

Zuko kisses him and his hair tickles Sokka’s face and Sokka’s hands curve over his ass and it’s good, it’s _good_ just like that but Sokka must make some awful, pitiful noise because _something_ has Zuko grinning, sitting back and mumbling a placating, “Okay, okay.”

Nimbly, he undoes Sokka’s jeans, watches Sokka thought his eyelashes as he curves his sinful fingers over the bulge in Sokka’s boxers that he’d been quite fine with valiantly ignoring until now. Zuko has only to pinch at the hem of Sokka’s shirt and mutter, “Take this off,” for Sokka to immediately comply.

Sokka checks over his shoulder that he didn’t fling his shirt onto a lamp or some unsuspecting open flame, then sits up halfway on his elbows and looks at Zuko. His toes curl where they dangle over the edge of the mattress.

“Did you still want to…” Zuko begins to ask. He’s not watching Sokka now, but his own busy hand.

Sokka’s eyelids flutter a bit, breaths labored. “You’ve—you said you’ve done it before, right?”

Zuko’s eyes flit to his own. “Mhm. Couple times. And… a long time ago.” His lips quirk. “But… it’d be better now.” He shrugs, gives Sokka’s jeans a firm tug on his hips, gets them low enough that he can curve his hand down between his legs. Sokka loses his breath, just a bit. “With you.”

Sokka’s chest contracts. Maybe his dick, too, _shut up._ “It won’t hurt?” he blurts, and he feels like an idiot until Zuko smiles again.

“Me?” chuckles Zuko. “No, Sokka. There are other ways to make myself used to it.”

Sokka blinks, thumps backward onto the mattress. “God,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Do I wanna think about that?” He breathes. _In and out, in and out,_ he tells himself, like he might just up and forget. “I’m probably gonna think about that.”

Zuko grins, shakes his head. “You’re weird.”

“You’re hot!” Sokka protests with a crackling voice. “Speaking of you, and—and _hot_ , you can’t keep doing that and expect me to last, so _please_ tell me what to do next.”

Again, Sokka’s idiocy is worth it ten times over for the way Zuko tosses back his head and laughs. They undress, frantically so on Sokka’s part, which leaves Zuko looking all too smug.

And when Zuko crawls into his lap again, Sokka thinks he looks hallowed and untouchable down to every hair and scar and curve of muscle, yet he wants to put his undeserving hands everywhere. And then Zuko kisses him and says into his mouth, “You don’t have to put your fingers in me if you don’t want.”

But Sokka’s been trembling at his core since Zuko first said he’d _made him feel good_ , and that’s all he wants, really. “But I do want,” he counters most adroitly.

Zuko’s brow piques. “You _want_.”

“Yeah.” Sokka winds his arms around Zuko, a little desperate. “Wanna finger you, baby, please.”

Zuko casts his eyes down between them, where his hands rest against Sokka’s stomach. He smiles, eyelashes smudges of black against his pink cheeks. “Okay.”

* * *

The afternoon sun had been high in the sky when they’d stepped outside, shining blinding-white behind heavy cloud cover, but still they slump like the dead into adjacent seats on the E train.

It’s a forty-minute ride to Jamaica Station. Zuko hadn’t _insisted_ on coming along, had just simply assumed he would. And Sokka hadn’t refused.

His duffel is wedged between his feet, Zuko’s gloved fingers in his own bare ones, Zuko’s cheek pillowed on his shoulder. His hair smells like hotel shampoo, and Sokka has to take a moment to be astounded at himself, that he’d been so utterly distracted that the thought of jacking the expensive, travel-size bath products hadn’t once crossed his mind.

Zuko’s breathing is steady, for the most part. His grip on Sokka’s hand slackens every now and then, and when there isn’t anybody sitting across from them, blocking their reflection in the window to the darkness of the subway tunnel, Sokka can see why—he’s drifting in and out of sleep, jolted whenever someone tramples his foot or someone speaks too loud and too close.

Sokka considers that tinted reflection. He can’t have said more than a few words to Zuko all morning, but maybe it’s best that way. He can’t help but feel his ribs trying to hold together against all the melodrama of heading to his own funeral, when really he’ll just be getting on a six-hour flight. It’s a six-hour flight that’ll take him far, far away from Zuko for the next four weeks, and yet… it’s still just a flight.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he fishes for it, careful not to shimmy under Zuko, as if the rattling of the subway car wouldn’t do it for him.

_Tuesday 12:38pm_

**the sororal unit**

What’s the flight number?

So I can track it. You never text when you land.

Also… how was your trip :)

Note that this does not excuse you from telling me everything when I see you!!!

Sokka snorts, lays his phone facedown only to meet his own eyes in the dim window again. Katara had never shown much interest in the ins and outs of his and Suki’s relationship, but then again, Sokka had also never held back on oversharing when it came to him and Suki. Zuko—he should ask Zuko. _How was the trip indeed?_ Sokka’s chest goes warm, only warmer when he catches a stupid little ghost of a smile on his face in the window. _Idiot_.

He supposes he should be grateful he’s only an idiot with a heart boner on the train, as a boner of any other variety would be less than ideal.

When the subway slows at the next stop, Sokka squints through the window, through the people milling about, at the mosaic tile reading the name of the stop.

“Shit, fuck,” he hisses, and while it wouldn’t be catastrophic to ride into the depths of Queens with Zuko and risk missing his flight, he feels like he’s overdue some karmic debt for how good he’s had it the past few days, and both missing Bato’s birthday and continuing to freeload off Ozai wouldn’t help any.

“Zuko.” As Sokka scrambles to his feet, his hand swoops to catch the heavy dip of Zuko’s sleepy head where his shoulder had been. “Babe, come on. We’re here.”

Zuko’s tired eyes peel open, then flash with awareness, which is when he nabs Sokka’s bag from the ground and shoves Sokka toward the door against the in-flowing current of passengers.

“Sorry,” Zuko says gruffly once they’re on the platform, rubbing the back of his hand against a sleepy eye and pointing out the staircase they should head for. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Sokka takes his bag back, shoulders the weight of it with a growing, sly grin.

Zuko’s yawning, but somehow still manages to glare at him from the corner of his eye. “Don’t,” he laughs, pushes at Sokka’s shoulder to urge him forth.

“To be fair, you did most of the work,” Sokka offers, a spring in his step. He could manage two stairs at a time if they weren’t trapped behind a mother-daughter duo.

Zuko scoffs, head whipping about as if anyone would care enough to eavesdrop. “I don’t even know what to do with you in public lately,” he mutters.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that for a month,” Sokka remarks, tugging on his hoodie drawstrings once they’ve ascended enough to reach the windchill’s clutches.

Zuko doesn’t reply. He takes Sokka by the elbow on the sidewalk, and keeps tight to his side as not to barricade its full width. Again, Sokka wrestles with the senseless—but at this point undeniable—funereal hollowness settling over him. It helps, a bit, to catch glimpses of the way Zuko bites his lip in profile, the way his eyes watchfully scope out the passersby.

The station entrance looks different in daylight, but Sokka can read the signs. Even so, he asks as they slow to a stop, “This it?”

“Yeah.” Zuko releases his arm, points toward the ticket machines up ahead. “You can just—”

“Can I ask you something?”

For a full second, Zuko doesn’t move, hand lingering in mid-air. But his expression betrays nothing as he drops it, meets Sokka’s eyes and tips his chin.

With both hands, Sokka clutches the strap of his bag so hard it burns. Words tumble from his mouth, and he can’t be sure if he’s relieved they’re not the ones he’d meant to voice. “What—what’re you gonna do now? Just stick around here? Alone?”

Zuko’s lips lift at one side, the same side he shrugs a shoulder on. “Not for long, probably.” His eyes drift. “Uncle likes the holidays.”

“Right.” Sokka smiles, unclenches his fists. Clears his throat, aims for _friendly_ and _casual_ for reasons beyond him. “You know you can come visit, right? At my dad’s? Literally, like…” He shakes his head faintly. “Whenever. Katara loves you, obviously, and, like, my dad and Bato would love to meet you, you know? It’d be, like, zero burden. At all. To stay for a bit.” It’s easier to look at Zuko when his gaze is focused elsewhere. “If you wanted. No pressure.”

Zuko’s Adam’s apple bobs. Then he smiles mildly, bites the tip of his tongue, lets it go. Sokka wants to knock himself upside the head— _focus_. “It’s a nice offer,” mumbles Zuko, and, _ah_ , Sokka knows when he’s being let down.

“Just think about it,” he tries, chuckles weakly.

“I will.”

Sokka nods. Then he nods again, and again. The somber weight in his stomach feels entirely different now—giddy in the worst way. He’s tempted to ask Zuko to just _wait_ , let Sokka run a lap around the block in hopes of exhausting it, that _feeling_ , so he could just get on the goddamn plane and not drive straight for a trainwreck like he absolutely is when he says, “Zuko?”

Zuko gives him his fleeting attention again, eyes ever-alert.

Sokka wrings his palms raw on the strap of his bag. “Are you pretending?”

Zuko’s lips part silently. It’s okay, Sokka wasn’t planning on waiting for an answer.

“Because I don’t think I’ve been pretending. Not for a while. And—I don’t know when I stopped, but it…” He laughs, self-deprecating. “It’s been so long. I can’t even remember. And pretending… at your dad’s, _pretending_ to like you, fuck, that was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Sokka's throat is dry, scratchy, but he can’t claw it away. “I didn’t have to pretend.”

Zuko’s eyes fall to Sokka’s chest. And Sokka wants to reach for him, but he should feel lucky Zuko hasn’t completely recoiled. Or worse, shut him down. He can’t push his luck.

“It… look, it kind of feels like I’m dropping a bomb, but also not, because—I think maybe you knew, even just a little bit,” Sokka says, softer now. “And… I don’t know why I’m telling you now. Or I do, maybe. Mostly I just want to know if I’ll have to go a whole month without hearing from you at all. Which… fine, I’ll deal with it. But I just want to be ready.”

And, perhaps to make himself feel better, Sokka weakly adds, “You don’t have to say anything,” as if that will justify Zuko’s silence to himself.

For a split second, Zuko closes his eyes, presses his lips firmly together. Then he checks his phone, probably for the time, which, _yes_ , Sokka knows is ticking away, but he’ll sprint through the terminal if he has to.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Sokka mumbles, not as an afterthought, though after a catharsis it sort of sounds like one. He thinks his shirt must be soaked in anxious sweat. Vaguely, he feels sorry for whoever will sit next to him on the plane.

There’s a chance Zuko means to take him by the hand, but with Sokka’s hands clamped on his bag, he settles for a light touch to his wrist, then pulls his touch away. “I don’t know what to say,” Zuko says, so tentative it’s almost swept away by the commotion of the street.

Sokka’s smile is rueful. “Oh.” Decidedly, he shakes that off. “I mean—it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Zuko responds, faint, but then Sokka asks, “Do you really not know, though?” and Zuko looks at him, really looks.

“I’m… not good with words.” Zuko swallows. “And you have to go soon. And…”

“No, you’re right.” Sokka nods, forces his eyes toward the ticket machines, the turnstiles, the blurry figures of strangers. “You’re right. I shouldn’t’ve sprung it on you. That’s… it’s kind of shitty. It’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s okay, you can say it is.” Sokka thinks his legs might give out if he doesn’t move them. “I guess… at least you know now. So… you can think about it, if you want. When you’re not cornered at the AirTrain station.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flickering over Zuko. He feels almost like he hasn’t released a breath in minutes, only drawn inward, laying the bricks and mortar to a dam he needs more with every passing second. “Or not. But, um… seriously. Thanks. For this.” Sokka waves nebulously toward the street, and when he goes to force a smile, it comes with dangerous ease. “And, uh. I’ll miss you.” He chances a quick squeeze at Zuko’s shoulder. But he’s selfish, won’t turn and leave without one last _thing_. _Any_ thing, truly. A glance, a word. “Bye?”

Zuko’s eyes are glassy as he raises them, warm against his backdrop of misty, murky grays. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Bye, Sokka.”

Sokka smiles, rigid, and falls into step with the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)  
> 10 - trouble is a friend (lenka)  
> 11 - the lakes (taylor swift)  
> 12 - sliding doors (nilüfer yanya)


	13. 13 - slump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sokka's dramatic ass tried to get me to name this chapter after _hoax_ ('you know i left a part of me back in new york...') but... is it really that deep? and THEN he had the audacity to go for _haunted_ but... it just didn't fit the VIBE sorry sokka
> 
> unsure if anything actually happens in this chapter? oops... if you're reading this I LOVE YOU. THANK YOU ♥

_Tuesday 6:34pm_

**the sororal unit**

I’m here!

I don’t see you?

Strangers file past Sokka, disappearing into the revolving doors. He recognizes one as the woman with the purple neck pillow who’d spent the flight in the middle seat beside him, and his eyes follow her trajectory through the windows until she’s outside, where she drops her suitcase to squat and scoop up a small child waiting under a smiling someone’s broad umbrella. His bag feels exceptionally heavy, dragging his one shoulder toward the Earth’s core like someone up in the clouds dialed the gravity up a notch just to fuck with him, and he heaves a breath.

Taking Katara unawares is Sokka’s safest bet to avoid her climbing out of the car and plunging into the rain to hug him like she hadn’t only seen him on Sunday. So he waits it out another few minutes, then hikes his bag up, charges for the revolving door, seeks out Dad’s familiar Jeep among the waiting cars. Through the windshield, he can see Katara messing with the dashboard console with that pinched look of hers, no doubt trying to hook up her phone via Bluetooth for the umpteenth time (in vain). Sokka tosses his bag into the backseat and slams the passenger side door shut before she’s even had a chance to look up.

“Hey,” she mutters distractedly, eyes jolting between her phone and the button she’s jamming her finger into. “This piece of crap never works. Just pretend I was blasting _I Want to Know What Love Is_ when you got in.” She sighs, drops her phone into the cupholder and lifts her eyes to Sokka’s, and the amused sparkle in them dies with startling speed. Sokka almost checks his own face in the side view mirror out of morbid curiosity. “What’s wrong?” she asks, hands gripping the wheel.

“Okay, that was only moderately insulting.” Sokka rubs self-consciously at his jaw, casts a glance through the windows at the traffic jam of picker-uppers and cabs and rideshare cars, all vying for the same real estate by the exit doors. “Should probably get a move on. You’re kinda idling in a bottleneck.”

“At least put your seatbelt on,” huffs Katara, but she gets her hand on the gear stick anyhow.

They’re cruising down the freeway—there’s something satisfyingly melancholic and humdrum about the rain-drenched windshield against the dark night sky, the yellows and reds of headlights and taillights refracting and swimming through the water rivulets—when Katara clears her throat. Lazily, Sokka glances her way out of the corner of his eye. She looks the way she always does at home; Dad’s too-big indoor moccasins on her feet, hair tied up in massive, floofy, nest-like fashion. She’s also wearing one of Sokka’s old shirt from high school, from that one ill-fated spring he was so sure he’d be a natural at lacrosse that he even bought the team long-sleeve.

 _“What,”_ Sokka grunts, because Katara still hasn’t said anything. He knows he’s in for an earful when she reaches out to turn the radio volume down.

“Sokka,” Katara breathes in exasperation as if she _really_ needs to expel it from her system. Her eyes are on the road. “So… my love song playlist. Is—it a no-go?”

“I literally don’t even know what that question means.” Sokka shifts against the door, seatbelt cutting uncomfortably into his neck.

Katara scoffs. “The last time I saw you, you were _fleeing the state_ with Zuko, totally unannounced. I was scared you were gonna elope, or something.” She frowns absently. “Scared, because… I’d want to be there, obviously. And in most states you need at least one witness, and I would _hope_ you’d pick me. Or Aang and me, I guess, if you _had_ to pick two.”

Sokka compulsively checks his phone—nothing, notifications just as barren as they were when he last checked—and closes his eyes, forehead bumping against the cold window. Immature as it feels, hearing Zuko’s spoken name genuinely stings him.

“Are you okay?” Katara asks, gentler now, and Sokka feels a tentative hand graze his arm. He shrugs out of its way. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m great.” He clears his throat, sighs hot and deep, and he cracks an eye open to see his breath has fogged up a patch on the window. He draws a stark line through it with his fingertip, adds, “Maybe stick to driving.”

Sokka gets a blissful few minutes of respite, of nothing but the sounds of Katara switching on the turn signal and the radio humming overplayed Christmas tunes. Then she asks, “You want me to tell Dad not to bring it up?”

 _It?_ Sokka’s mouth twists sardonically. He supposes their dad must be waiting to talk to him, considering he’d had to hear it from Katara that not only was Sokka delaying his arrival home to spontaneously jet to New York, but with a _boy_. His purported _boy_ friend. Of several months.

Visibly, Sokka cringes at the thought of a sexuality-validation talk from his dad, of all people. The one from Aang was bad enough, but Aang can usually—keyword _usually_ —read the room, knows which buttons of Sokka’s to press, which to not. Or worse, his dad could initiate another well-intentioned but absolutely unbearable _there are plenty more fish in the sea_ post-breakup chat. Sokka had still been tender-hearted after Suki, and it’s possible he’d left a few tear stains on his dad’s shoulder, but the feeling now is entirely different. He’s confused, disappointed. Shell-shocked, too, that he’d let himself act like a complete fool for Zuko only for their trip to end like _that_. Sokka might just end up laughing hysterically in his dad’s face, because _ha, Dad, we can’t have a post-breakup chat if Zuko and I were never_ together _, can we?_

His eyelids flutter open. The rain comes down as more of a mist, but he knows it’ll pick back up again. “Just. Forget about it? Please? For now?” He rubs his eyes, sighs into the palms of his hands. “I’m tired. I’ll deal with Dad if it… you know, comes down to it.”

Katara is silent a beat. “Okay.”

The radio blurts out the first few bars of Wham!’s _Last Christmas_. Sokka snorts, tugs his hood over his head.

* * *

“Oh… wow, Sokka.”

They’re sat around the dinner table, at the center of which sits a rather pathetic, lopsided, single-tiered cake that’s been stabbed with too many mismatched candles. Not quite enough for Bato’s exact age, though.

Sokka drops his fork to the floor with an ugly clatter. It’d been balancing with perfect equilibrium on the tip of his finger—until he’d heard his name, that is. He laces his fingers over his stomach, ignores the fork and turns his eyes to Bato at the head of the table. “Hm?”

Bato’s torn away the newspaper wrapping of Sokka’s gift, holds the _NYC Taxi Drivers 2021_ calendar with cautious fingers as if he doesn’t want to leave the slightest scratch, though it’s already pretty banged up from Sokka’s less-than-efficient packing skills and a coast-to-coast flight. Bato lifts an eyebrow, which has Dad smacking a hand onto Sokka’s shoulder and wheezing out a throaty laugh. “Let me see, let me see,” Dad demands, craning his arm out for the calendar.

Sokka rubs at the bridge of his nose. Katara stares at him across the table, lips quirked. “I just—I saw it and I thought of you,” Sokka offers simply, slumps low in his chair.

“How flattering,” murmurs Bato.

“You could put it up in your office?” Katara suggests and cranes her neck to catch a glimpse, which means she misses her target when she goes to stab her fork at the slice of cake on her plate.

“I did tell Zuko I’d keep it for myself if you didn’t want it,” Sokka says. It slips out idly, which… is a mistake, he decides, when he looks up from his lap to find three pairs of eyes on him. He smiles tightly, doesn’t elaborate, and reaches for the cake server. As ugly as the cake is, and as violently pink its icing—someone went too ham on the food coloring—it doesn’t taste like sawdust, which is enough excuse in Sokka’s book for seconds. He’ll eat it with his hands.

Finally, Bato laughs softly, reclaims his new prized possession. “Of course I want it. Now I’ll think of _you_ whenever I see…” Bato holds the calendar at arm’s length, squints at the man on its cover. “This fine gentleman. Thank you, Sokka.”

Sokka shakes his head, licks icing from his fingertips. “I clearly didn’t think this through,” he mutters down to his plate, “if you’re now gonna be calling me twice as often whenever you forget how to use Excel.”

Bato tucks the calendar safely underneath his chair, moves on to Katara’s package, wrapped neatly with a sparkly bow. “I’ll have you know I took a training seminar last month—”

“Like, an online one? Fifty bucks says you zoned out listening and already forgot how to do formulas.” Sokka snorts, scrapes up icing from his plate with the side of his knife. A clump of unmixed powdered sugar catches his eye amid all the pink, though he’s mildly surprised he’s even able to spot it. The lamp hanging over the dining room table casts an almost eerie, yellow-green glow over the room—its lampshade dimmed by dust—and rebounds off wallpapered walls—a strange russet-colored, fuzzily-dappled pattern there’d been once-upon-a-time plans to replace. Outside, it rains again from a tar-black sky. His eyes are tired; he’d beelined straight for his and Katara’s room the evening he’d arrived, sagged into bed at a time he likely hasn’t since he was ten, and woke up before sunrise. His eyes hadn’t left a screen until the moment he’d been called down to dinner. Luckily, Katara didn’t comment when she’d awoken to the sight of Sokka under the covers with only his head and hands visible, laptop up against the headboard of his bed, but she had brought him back a sandwich when she’d gone out to lunch with one of her high school friends. Sokka doesn’t think his silent gratitude had been enough, but he hasn’t done anything to rectify that.

If Bato makes a snarky reply, Sokka’s too far underwater to hear it. He picks up his slice of cake and bites off as much as he can fit in his mouth, so when his dad’s voice does breach the surface of the water, he physically can’t form words.

“You never got a chance to tell you about your trip,” remarks Dad, laying a hand on the back of Sokka’s chair. The cake finally turns to sawdust in Sokka’s mouth, and he chews at it squeamishly.

“I haven’t seen him in twenty-four hours,” chuckles Bato. “I thought you’d come and gone right back to school.”

Once Sokka manages to swallow, the cake sits like an indigestible fruit pit in his stomach. He clears his throat, picks at the fraying edge of his placemat.

“Sorry about that. Long flight.” He scratches at the inner corner of his eye. “Uh, yeah. Kind of spontaneous, I don’t know. New York is busy. Lots of people, like the movies. Big tree. Big park. It snowed, that was cool. And I like the subway.”

Silence. Sokka’s brain supplies the cricket chirp sound effects. He frowns at the remainder of his cake, then stuffs it in his mouth. Directly opposite him, Katara has her fingers laced together, pressed right up underneath her nose.

“Okay,” Dad says slowly. “You had fun, I hope?”

Sokka nods quickly, pushes his plate away and leans back in his seat. He can’t remember the last time he looked any of his family in the eye—if he had at all since he’d arrived. It’s worked out fine for him thus far. He licks over his teeth, nods. “Yeah.”

“Did you off—?”

“Did they raise the teaching assistant wages on your campus?” Bato cuts in. “I remember it was in the news way back when, the academic student employees’ union protesting and whatnot. Did you end up getting a raise? Because—”

Sokka laughs out an interruption, quiet and hoarse. “Yeah, no. No raise. Bunch of TAs at another campus got fired, though. For withholding… withholding grades. But, anyway, like, I know what you’re asking, Bato. Zuko covered it; the trip, where we stayed. He’s—his dad’s got money.” He smiles flatly. “I’m paying my tuition and my rent, don’t you worry.”

Sokka knows it just from the dining room air quality that Bato’s frowning, but Dad seizes the opportunity to finish his question. “Did you offer to have Zuko come visit?” he asks, and shifts in his chair, like he wants to bestow his full attention upon his son. _Keep it,_ Sokka thinks, rubbing at his temples. “Has he ever been to the area?”

“Of course I offered.” Sokka sniffs, stills his bouncing leg when he realizes it’s rattling the table. “Zero chance he’ll come, though. Good choice on his part, honestly, like… if he’d actually _wanted_ the worst ever first impression of the Pacific Northwest, he probably would’ve taken me up on it. Just watch, everyone who bought fireworks for New Year’s is gonna sit inside while it thunderstorms or start fires when their bottle rockets get struck by lightning.”

This time, Sokka doesn’t watch for the tense exchange of looks around the table, nor does he wait for the cricket chirps or the rolling tumbleweed. He rises from the table, proceeds to gather up every empty plate in sight. At Katara’s encouraging nod, Bato finishes unwrapping the present. It’s a quality rain jacket, adorned on the breast with their school’s logo. Sokka knows he’s been enough of a dick this evening, so he holds in his snort at the bitter irony of it all as he totes the dishes into the kitchen, turns the faucet on hot and sets to scrubbing.

Katara appears at his side, drops a handful of utensils into the soapy sink. As she sets about boxing up the rest of the cake in tupperware, Sokka mutters, “I’ll apologize later.”

She nods her response, takes up the role of propping up wet, clean dishes in the drying rack. “They didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Sokka sighs. One of his sleeves has rolled down and it’s getting uncomfortably wet, but he can’t be bothered to pull it back up.

The water sloshes in the sink. Sokka works the dish brush at a stubborn crusty bit on a plate. Chairs scrape in the dining room as their dad and Bato arise, presumably to set up camp in front of the TV. Katara says, lowly, “You kind of look like you’re about to go sit on the front stoop and have a cigarette and stare at the rain.”

A laugh bubbles out of Sokka’s chest, sudden and honest. “Don’t tempt me.” He hands off another plate to her. “I’m kind of in the mood to wallow. Don’t have any cigarettes, though.” He smirks at the suds in the sink. “Can you imagine if I went back to school a broody smoker? Aang would cut me off. Friendship over.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Katara snorts, bumps her shoulder to his. “You know he’d try his hardest to hold onto you. Probably would have you try an infrared sauna detox, though.”

Sokka chuckles, hums thoughtfully.

The sink is empty and Sokka’s drying his hands on a dish towel when Katara asks, “Did you really ask him to visit?”

Sokka meets her eyes warily, leans back against the counter.

“Zuko, I mean,” she clarifies without need, cradling her elbows, arms tight to her chest. It’s bleak outside but not much better indoors, and he snatches an abandoned fleece jacket of their dad’s from the stool by the back door, hands it to her.

“Yeah.” Sokka chuckles again, drier now. “Maybe he thought it was… you know, one of those invitations no one’s ever meant to follow through on.” He watches as Katara slips her arms into the too-long sleeves. “But, like… I said a lot of other stuff that I think it was pretty clear I meant, so.” He lifts his brows, shrugs, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “I don’t—I just don’t know. I don’t know what he’s thinking about.” His eyes dart to hers. “And _no_ , I haven’t asked. Not sure I even want to know. Yet, at least.”

Katara hugs herself. Her lips purse, and she rocks back and forth between her heels and the balls of her feet. Sokka imagines the cogs in her brain turning, a little mental boiler steaming, processing the vague tidbits of information he’s given her. “So you won’t listen to me if I tell you you should find some time to talk to him?” she says.

Sokka shakes his head stolidly.

“Okay.” Katara tucks her hands into the pockets of the fleece. “Next question: does this mean you’re gonna spend the rest of break in bed without ever seeing sunlight?”

Sokka’s response is a bit too hastily indignant. “Well—it wouldn’t be my fault if I did! Yangchen Slacked me last night that she wants to revamp the _entire_ second 166 project, which means I have documentation to write and code to test and shit to delegate and—” He hesitates, points accusingly at the night sky through the window. “I wouldn’t be seeing sunlight anyway! When’s the last time anyone here saw the sun? Maybe once for an hour three weeks ago.”

Katara shakes her head, gives him a little smile. “Spring semester hasn’t even started yet. You can’t be burning yourself out already.”

“I’m burning just fine.” Sokka rubs at his eyelids. When he drops his hand, Katara’s giving him a strange look. “What?”

She stands up just a bit straighter. “Um… what would you say if I wanted to drag you with me to a party next week? For New Year’s?”

Sokka blinks, uncertain if the question is rhetorical. “Ask who’s hosting, then probably say no regardless?”

Katara rolls her eyes. “I just think you’d feel better if you got out of the house, you know? Saw people who aren’t me or Dad or Bato?” Her smile is endearingly optimistic. “I bet all your weird nerdy bro friends from high school will be there!”

Sokka neglects to note that it wasn’t only _he_ who was _weird and nerdy_ , much less in fucking _academic decathlon_ , thanks very much. “Why?” he asks, abruptly suspicious. “Whose party?”

Katara’s toes turn a bit inward. Sokka raises an eyebrow.

“Jet’s.”

He groans, long-suffering, slouches in his perch against the counter. “ _God_ , Katara, I _hate_ that guy!”

“And I’ve never understood why!” she squawks. “You’re like the same person!”

“That’s—extremely offensive, just so you know.” Sokka stares at the wall opposite, pinching his lower lip between his fingers. “Just because you were _besties_ in debate club or whatever doesn’t mean—”

“Sokka! Please, just—you’d feel better if you came. I’m ninety-nine percent sure. And in case of the other one percent—you can just leave if you hate it.”

“You’re trying to make me feel better by forcing me to go to _Jet’s_? When that’s a surefire way to make me feel worse?”

“Nobody said anything about _forcing_ , okay? Fine. Forget about—”

“Just before we graduated, I told him if I ever saw him again, it’d be too soon.”

Katara goggles. “You said that to his face?!”

“Yes?” Sokka shrugs. He squints, trying to recall the hazy memory. “But… I don’t know if he heard. He was talking to someone else. And I think I was drunk.”

Katara looks at him blankly. Then she pulls the fleece tighter around her middle, turns for the doorway. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

Sokka contemplates for a good half a second. “Wait.” Katara stops in her tracks, looks over her shoulder. “You think Chan from the hockey team will be there? The guy you tutored in English Lit?”

She blinks, impassive. “I don’t know.”

Sokka sighs through gritted teeth. “I hate that guy, too. He creeped on you so hard.”

“Okay, Sokka.”

* * *

“That doesn’t look like your room.”

Sokka snorts, sagging onto nondescript, floral bedsheets in a bedroom barren and characterless enough to probably be a guest room. “That’s because it’s not.”

Aang hums. “Yeah, I don’t see any giant periodic tables up on the wall.”

Sokka scoffs suddenly, laying on his back and holding his phone directly above his head though he’s well aware of the dangers of such a position. “I’ve literally never had a periodic table on my wall!” he yawps. “I don’t even like chemistry!”

Aang studies him through the phone, far too close to his front-facing camera, then looks away with lips pursed, sips from a metal straw at a drink in a mason jar. “Sure.” Another sip, and then, “Is someone playing _Don’t Drop That Thun Thun_?”

Sokka sighs, deep and resounding in his throat, and rubs a hand across his eyes. “Yeah, downstairs. I’m at a party.”

“Oh hey, nice,” Aang says absently. “Wait—you’re upstairs? You locked the door, right?”

Sokka freezes, pondering a moment, then abruptly clambers off the bed to go do so. “Good point.”

Aang _tsk_ s twice, probably points a finger gun at Sokka that he misses in his distraction. Sokka drops back onto the bed, sighing, and refocuses his eyes on the screen. “How’s your break been?” he asks. Bland, yes. But safe territory.

“Oh, awesome,” sighs Aang, grinning and holding up his mason jar for Sokka to see. Sokka regards the pixelated, murky liquid. “Brewed some booch right when I got home, cracked it open today. It has pineapple and cayenne and it fucking slaps—hey, Gyatso!” he hollers, glancing out-of-frame. “This shit slaps, right? No, the booch! The—the kombucha, yeah! Yeah yeah yeah, right on.” Aang turns a sunny smile on Sokka, who’s weirdly calmed by his familiar antics. “And I finally mastered _Bakasana,_ man. Crow pose.”

Sokka laughs softly, thinks of every time the past semester he’d walked out of his bedroom to Aang yoga-ing in the living room, face down, ass up. “Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Makes every three-sixty view of your biker shorts I never hoped I’d see worth it. And I guess also that time you fell out of the pose and hit the windowsill and broke that pipe.”

Aang pouts at the memory. “The elephant-shaped one.” He maneuvers his straw into his pouted mouth, mumbles wistfully, “Rip.”

Sokka smiles at his phone as Aang’s eyes seem to go out of focus on a lengthy slurp of kombucha. Downstairs, it’s like a scene resurrected from a long-since-cold high school grave. For one, Jet is undeniably present, alternating between holding court for anyone just drunk enough to listen to his crap within a ten foot radius, and harshly policing those too drunk to listen who get too cozy with sloshing cups near his aunt’s tapestries. Sokka’s not sure what Jet had expected, setting out so much liquor and slyly—with those stupid, waggling, perpetually-quirked eyebrows of his—remarking _you look like you need a drink_ to any and everyone, empty-handed or not. Then again, it’s Jet. Sokka never had any patience for him to begin with.

Sokka had lost Katara to her high school friends almost as soon as he’d set foot inside Jet’s, which was… _fine_. He could fend for himself, even if he’d already felt disoriented just stepping out of the house for the first time in days—or weeks. It was fine, as long as he could avoid Jet, which was easy enough, considering he was a good head taller than the average person present, and also because it seemed he’d never ditched that trademark shaggy haircut that still made Sokka’s blood boil. In all honesty, it reminded Sokka of the way Zuko’s bangs were always in his eyes, and, _ah_ , that’s when the prodigious liquor had come in handy.

Or… almost. Aang had FaceTimed him, and Sokka had been in no mood to go sit in the damp chill of the outdoors to escape the clamor, so he’d meandered his way through the house until he’d located a staircase, on his way apologetically waving off enthusiastic grins and summons from people he barely recognized but probably once took physics with.

And then he’d shut himself into the guest room with the flowery bedspread.

Sokka is content to recline and gaze tiredly at Aang’s grainy image and listen to him guzzle kombucha, but then Aang puts down his jar with a clink and breathes, “Now I remember why I called you. I haven’t talked to you since grading! Since—we were both at school! Since before you went to Zuko’s _dad’s!_ And to fucking New York City!”

Sokka wants to grimace, holds it together even if Aang isn’t watching him back—probably mesmerized by whatever his screensaver is doing, if Sokka has to venture a guess. “We texted last week,” he points out.

“That doesn’t count,” Aang huffs. “That’s artificial communication. Even this…” He finally looks at his phone, wiggles a finger between himself and the screen. “Bordering on fake as hell.”

Sokka says nothing to that, can’t even bring himself to cleverly evade the topic, much less find it in himself to lie to Aang. He rubs at his eyes, his jaw.

For a moment, it’s almost as if Aang’s finished his thought, preoccupied once again by the metal straw. But then his eyes bore into Sokka’s through the screen, expectant. “Well?”

Sokka drags in a breath through his nose. Plainly, he states, “I don’t really wanna talk about it, to be honest.”

“What?!” Aang holds his phone comically close to his face, though Sokka thinks the hilarity is unintended. Even then, it doesn’t break through the funk weighing Sokka down into the mattress, the feeling of heavy, wet sand in his limbs and chest and head. “But you—you basically _met the parents_ , Sokka _—_ parent singular—and went on a _honeymoon_ , and now you don’t have anything to say?”

Sokka shrugs. “It’s old news.”

“Not for me!” Aang protests pitifully. “I didn’t even get to say bye to you before you left! I had to hear it from Katara that you were getting on a plane and _not_ to go home! We were supposed to shroom together Sunday night!”

 _Were they?_ Sokka thinks back to the glee of fleeing the apartment at Walnut Street with Zuko’s hand in his own, and the memory tastes bitter on his tongue. “Sorry,” he manages quietly, shrugs a shoulder.

“Eh, I forgave you when it happened.” Aang chuckles. “Since, like, you know. It’s _you_ and _Zuuuko_. You know?”

Sokka mutters, “Not really,” before his mental filter can step in. And Aang, face filling his whole screen, stares at Sokka with deep, dark, pixelated eyes.

“Why’re you so down, buddy?” he mumbles. “Did something happen? Did you fail Computability? I kinda went off on that final, but, like, rest assured, that’s literally the only thing that saved me.” He laughs halfheartedly, but the smile doesn’t linger on his face. “Sokka?”

Sokka clears his throat, drags his head back to the present, though his eyes are on the beige popcorn ceiling past his phone. “Nah, I did fine.” Finals study sessions with Suki had been intense. “I—yeah, dunno. I just think Zuko and I are on different pages about… where we’re at.”

Aang is dead silent. Then, softly, “What do you mean?” He’s inspecting Sokka through his phone like one might an ant through a magnifying glass, and his lips are parted, eyes puzzled. “Who’s… further in the book? So to speak?”

Sokka chuckles quietly. “Oh, me. For sure.”

“Oh.” Aang’s brow furrows, and then everything whirls around on Sokka’s phone screen until it all stills again. Aang’s settled onto his back on a couch, a printed throw pillow hugged to his chest. “That’s… if I’d had to guess, I would’ve thought the other way around.”

Sokka snorts immediately. “What? Why?”

Aang shrugs. “Just from being around you guys, you know? Like… in the best way, you guys are, like… one of those couples who make all the single people in the room feel a little lonely. Or—anyone single who’s sensitive to that, I guess. Like me. Not… like, you know. Toph, who gets pissed off.” He laughs, a clipped sound. “Anyway… I don’t know. Zuko’s different around you. That’s… not to say you’re not comfortable around him, too, but. I don’t know. S’one of those things you can just… _tell_. Or I thought I could, at least. The way he looks at you and touches you and shit.” An absent smile comes to Aang’s face. “And also, _apparently_ , the way he takes you home and to New York. _And shit_.” Aang, whose eyes had wandered, quickly snaps them back to his phone. “Sorry. I—is it a sore subject?”

Sokka feels acutely aware of every bone in his body, of the heat rising to his face. He clears his throat. “Well, I’m not gonna say I’ve been having the time of my life these past two weeks.” He sighs, switches his phone to his other hand, lets his arm flop above him on the mattress.

“I’m sorry, man.” Aang looks pensive. “It… to me, it just doesn’t add up. But… I’m sorry.”

Sokka shrugs again. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’m gonna worry, Sokka. I love you guys.” Aang’s frown deepens, a troubled, tense set to his mouth. “I love you the most, just so you know. You laid claim to my heart first, bro, and you’d get me in a divorce, but... but it just feels _weird_ , like— _wrong_ , to try and tell you _Zuko won’t know what he had ’til it’s gone_ because, like. I’m pretty damn sure he knew. Knew _well_.”

Sokka smiles for Aang’s sake. He wants to give Aang a consoling rub to the head—his dark hair is coming in thick now—maybe dangle off his back. Aang gives the best piggyback rides.

Sokka’s tempted to think that maybe, just maybe if New York had never happened, if he’d stayed put— _shroomed_ with Aang, _whatever_ , gone home when he was supposed to, he wouldn’t feel as heartsick as he does now. But he knows the breaking point would’ve come sooner or later. It’d only been a waiting game—a game of how long Sokka could keep his mouth shut. And he wasn’t the very best at that in general.

“I think…” Sokka watches the ceiling, sees Aang shift attentively in his periphery. “The worst part was, like… he didn’t rip off the bandaid, or whatever.”

Aang is silent, so Sokka glances at his phone. Aang’s brow ridge is still in a furl. “What does that mean?”

“Like.” Sokka knows he blushes more the longer he speaks. “I—you know, told him how I felt. And… he… _basically_ said he didn’t know. How he felt… back.”

Aang is so still the screen appears frozen. But his voice comes through clear as day. “What.”

“He said he didn’t know what to say—”

“Yeah, I got that part. _Sokka_.” Aang smashes a hand into his face. “Wait—so, you _didn’t_ break up?”

Without preamble, Sokka says, “No,” because there was no explicit _let’s stop pretending to be boyfriends_.

“Sokka, what the fuck. Okay. Okay, what the fuck.” Aang slides his hand away, situates himself uncomfortably close to the camera again. “He said he _didn’t know_. Dude, do you even know who you’re dating?”

Sokka feels abruptly indignant. “Hey—!”

“You’re both the dumbest and smartest person I know.” Aang sighs, rests the end of his phone on his chest, giving Sokka a flattering view of the underside of his chin. “And… I know a lot of people. Oh, hey!”

The downstairs erupts into uproarious chaos that practically rumbles the floor and the bed beneath Sokka, and he realizes, dimly, that they’re chanting a countdown. _Nine, eight, seven…_

Sokka frowns, swipes at his phone in search of the time. “Is it midnight already?”

“Yup. Kiss me, man.” Sokka’s screen is a blur of pink as Aang makes smoochy lips at him, naturally accompanied by obscene, wet noises. Big, square teeth flash into sight as he demands, screeching with urgency: “Come on, Sokka, _please!”_

Sokka hears _three, two_. Rolls his eyes. Pecks the air near his phone camera for his very best friend’s sake.

Aang’s grinning when he pulls back, toasting the air with his mason jar. “Clink fucking clink!”

Sokka lifts an eyebrow, coughs out a helpless snort. And as Aang sips noisily, sucking up the dregs at the bottom of the jar, Sokka finds himself on the verge of asking if Aang’s laid the topic of _him and Zuko_ to rest so quickly. For Sokka, it’d feel like whiplash to try and forget about it just like that, as if it hasn’t been niggling at the back of his mind for nearly weeks now. And yet, even around Aang, the last thing he wants to do is prod some sleeping beast, make it completely and utterly obvious he can’t let Zuko go. Aang, on the other hand, is again happily flushed and sparkly-eyed, all the woe from minutes ago just… gone.

Sokka keeps his mouth shut. Mindlessly, he checks his notifications. Futile.

“Man,” sighs Aang. Sokka’s looking at his chin again, while Aang stares into some faraway alternate plane, metal straw dangling from the corner of his mouth, dinging against glass. “I just wanna hold someone’s hand right now. So bad.”

Sokka’s answering smile is a bit silly, fond. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Aang sighs. He leans out of the frame, Sokka hears a click, and the overhead lights dim on Aang’s end, followed by a rainbow of orbs rotating slowly over Aang’s face as he lays back again. His novelty party light—he has another of the same one at his and Sokka’s place.

“Try Gyatso?” Sokka suggests lightly.

“No, man, shut up,” Aang refuses, lips pouted.

“Katara?”

Aang’s nose wrinkles. “Well, if I could selectively manifest, then. Yeah. I’d hold Katara’s hand. But—anyone. Dude, I wish you were here, I’d hold yours. Toph’s. Theirs, his, hers, xyrs. Anyone's.”

Sokka’s mulling over words of sympathy when Aang mutters, “Can’t believe you kissed a dude before me.”

Sokka coughs out a laugh, because… yeah, back in August, he wouldn’t have believed it’d be in the cards for him, either. It doesn’t feel like it’s been literal months since he first kissed Zuko under the pretense of practicing intimacy. _Ah_ , he reflects, _you were—and_ are _—a fucking fool, Sokka_.

“Me neither,” Sokka states honestly.

Aang chuckles. “Does this mean you’ll come to Pride with me next year? Or—this year, I guess, as of two minutes ago.”

Sokka lifts an eyebrow. “I went to Pride with you last year.”

Aang blinks. “Oh yeah!”

Sokka smiles. He hefts his leg from the mattress, holds it in the air above him. His jeans peel away from his ankle, and his socks cover it up, but they’re tight enough he can make out the bump of Aang’s homemade anklet underneath. Sokka lowers his leg. “Anyway, it’s not too late, y’know.”

“What? Oh.” Aang frowns theatrically, thinks in silence. “I guess. But I’m convinced it’s ‘cos I was just super confused in freshman year, and then I met Katara the next year and… I’ve been emotionally unavailable ever since.”

Sokka hums nostalgically. “Little first-year Aang, fresh out of homeschool. Talk about culture shock.”

“You said it, buddy.”

“Just get on Tinder.”

Aang raises an eyebrow. “Just to kiss a dude? No, man, you know I can’t get it up for randos.”

“You don’t have to _get it up_ to kiss someone.”

“It’s fucking Tinder! Odds are they’ll expect it!” protests Aang. His eyes dart away from the camera again. Glowing circles of yellow, red, green, magenta pass over his cheeks, his forehead. “And—what if I fall in love?! _Again?!_ I can already barely hold it together when Katara so much as looks at me!”

“About that,” says Sokka, “you know she’s been right next to me this whole time?”

Aang’s eyes widen to their brinks, but grow skeptical as he studies Sokka’s grinning face. “You were… lying,” he murmurs slowly. Then he disappears from the frame, sets his phone down on some flat surface where all Sokka can see is pure black. “Stay there and think about what you’ve done.”

* * *

Sokka lasts two days into the new year. Then he calls up the airline he’d booked his return ticket with, and for a cost that only means he won’t be able to treat Aang to nut butters of the natural, more unusual varieties for his next several grocery runs, he bumps his flight up to the following day.

On his way out the door, duffel in hand, Sokka says to Dad, “You’ll see enough of me when all my job applications get thrown in the reject pile and I crawl all the way through NorCal and Oregon to leech off you from our childhood bedroom.” He thumps his dad on the back, gives Katara a curt _see you in two weeks_ nod, and jogs to the curb to meet his Uber.

It’s when he’s back at his and Aang’s empty apartment, the air cold and stale and echoey from two weeks of vacancy, that he dumps his bag on the bedroom floor, drops to the mattress, and texts Mai.

_Sunday 7:38pm_

**Sokka**

Hello

Happy new year and everything

Insert party horn noise

Can we talk maybe???

Sokka stares at the blue text bubbles until his eyes hurt, then collapses backward onto the mattress, letting his phone bounce a few feet away. It buzzes just when his eyes are slipping shut.

**mai**

yo

yea

i’m at ty lee’s if you wanna come over.

i can send you the address if you haven’t been

Sokka’s eyebrows knit together.

**Sokka**

Rn???

You’re in town??

**mai**

oh shit are you not

i don’t really do telemedicine fyi.

**Sokka**

Ok fair

No I’m here

Why are you??

**mai**

just trying to have sex w my gf in peace

not at this very moment tho

so you can come

**Sokka**

You sure about that

**mai**

please come sokka.

she’s trying to pick out a drama to watch

i don’t have the patience for that flowery bs.

Half an hour later, Sokka is at Ty Lee’s doorstep, trodding on a doormat in the shape of a cat’s head. No other doors in the hallway have mats, and he’d marched right up to it and knocked without double-checking her apartment number in his texts.

The door seems to hardly crack an inch before it slams on its hinges and Sokka has a sudden armful of Ty Lee. She’s snuggling her nose into the sweatshirt Sokka flew in, which he only thinks to change out of _now_ , now when she’s got her face buried in it.

“Sokka,” she sighs dreamily, then eases back, cups him by the cheeks. “Sokka, Sokka. Did you have happy holidays?” She bats big, brown eyes at him, which Sokka has to take a moment to process, because one is lined heavily with dark, blockish liner, and the other is ringed with white mascara, circumference suffused with bright red shadow.

“Oh.” Ty Lee laughs shrilly, steps backward and drags Sokka over the threshold with a gentle hold on his hand. “It’s another year, you know? Another year means another Urban Dance Comp! And I know it’s not ’til May, but… I’m in charge of hair and makeup and I got too excited and wanted to practice some concepts before the semester started! I’m not really sure about either of these, though.” She shrugs jerkily, swings the door shut, then prances further down the narrow entry hall to a warmly-lit room at its end, its doorway alive with a softly-swaying beaded curtain. “Come on, you!” she urges, parting the beads and holding them for Sokka.

Sokka toes out of his shoes, shuffles to the doorway with socked feet. Beyond it, there’s a small room, cluttered with plants, stuffed animals, and posters on every visible surface. In the corner on a mattress on the floor, Mai is comparatively monochromatic, sitting up against the profuse cushions. She glances up at Sokka over the rims of her glasses.

“There you are,” she murmurs, but then Ty Lee’s plopping to the mattress, tapping the spacebar on her open laptop to unpause a show, then pleading, “Off, off,” as she carefully removes Mai’s glasses. With them out of the way, Sokka can see more clearly that one of Mai’s eyes is painted to look like as if it’s encircled in the sort of flames Sokka would expect to see on a toy car.

“I’m _so_ glad you’re here, Sokka,” Ty Lee says over the hum of the drama. “I’m running out of eyes. I was thinking about going across the hall to ask Mr. Choi if he’d help me out. He’s narcoleptic, so I figured maybe he’d just sleep through it…”

“You leave Mr. Choi alone,” Mai says flatly, arching a brow at the vibrant color in the eyeshadow palette Ty Lee’s dabbing a brush into. Then she rolls her eyes to Sokka, thumps the mattress with her foot. “Come sit.”

Sokka traipses to the bed, plants himself on its end. “Hey,” he says finally, when he realizes he hasn’t actually voiced any of his thoughts aloud since arriving. His voice is dry, crackly; he hasn’t spoken to a soul since he left home earlier that day.

“Talk to me.” Mai nods at him, holding eye contact as best she can whilst Ty Lee grips her by the chin and smudges cobalt blue over her other eyelid.

“I’m gonna do this next eye galaxy-themed,” Ty Lee explains, ruminative. “Might paint a little orange Saturn by the corner of your eye. What do you think?”

Mai snorts, taps the back of her hand to Ty Lee’s waist. “Not you.”

“Oh.” Over her shoulder, Ty Lee grins at Sokka. “Take it away, Sokka!”

Sokka wants to hide under the nearest oversized plushie. He runs his clammy palm up and down his neck. “It’s… about Zuko.”

“Well, I already knew that,” Mai says, but her lips barely move, as Ty Lee’s busy holding her chin again. Her elegant hand makes a swirling gesture in the air. “So… elaborate.”

Sokka frowns. He laces his fingers together in his lap, eyes the collage of photos above Ty Lee’s desk.

“It’s okay to be shy,” mumbles Ty Lee with a soft giggle. She goes for an electric shade of purple next.

Mai watches him unreadably. Then, “Ty.” She settles her hand on Ty Lee’s thigh, at the very top of her over-the-knee sock. “Wanna go start shelling the shrimp?”

Ty Lee sits back, huffy, brushes the tip of her thumb under Mai’s eye to swipe away the fallout. “But I’m not done yet—!”

“I won’t rub it, promise.” Mai gazes at her patiently, toying with the elastic on her sock. “But it’s getting late, and it still needs time to marinate.”

Ty Lee pouts, but slowly, she begins to nod, closing her palette and setting it on her nightstand. “When should I start the rice cooker?”

“Once you get the shrimp in the marinade.” As Ty Lee stands, Mai gives her bottom a gentle pat. “Thanks, baby.”

Ty Lee shrugs, smile sweet and tight-lipped as her eyes graze over Sokka. “It’s my turn, anyway.” Then she pauses the drama and skips out her door, slipping through the beaded curtain and leaving the strands clacking softly in her wake.

Mai diligently untucks her hair from behind her ears so it falls in dark, silky curtains and set the angled planes of her face in shadow. She scoots up against the wall, links her hands around her bent knees.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sokka says hesitantly, but he feels a strange sense of relief just under his skin. Not that he feels Ty Lee poses any threat to him, but… he simply does.

Mai half-smiles. “We do have to eat, though.” She purses her lips, lets them smack apart. “And… she’s a romantic. A romantic who’s… _very_ invested in you and Zuko, so.” A faint shrug. “Someone’s got to be the realist.”

“You,” Sokka mumbles uselessly, and Mai smiles.

“Me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The long, black bell sleeves of her top drape over her middle like a waterfall. “Go ahead.”

Sokka nods, bites a sore spot on the inside of his lip. He can’t be sure how long he’s silent for, but when he breaks it, it’s to say, “Me and Zuko, we… weren’t actually together.” He swallows thickly. “This whole time. Not—not really.”

Mai’s eyes are dark and unyielding. Almost… bored. She then lifts her brows. “Yeah,” Mai sighs out. “Yeah, I kind of knew that.”

Sokka’s eye twitches. His body jerks to face her fully. “What?!” He blinks in a frenzy. Had he really overestimated their secrecy that much, so much he feels catatonic just at the thought of anyone seeing through their illusion? They’re hardly professional thespians. At least… not Sokka. “Did Zuko tell—”

“No,” Mai chuckles. “No, he told me nothing. Other than… I mean, the first text about you that I ever got from him was at midnight that first time he went out with Aang, when he said, and I quote, _if Azula asks, I have a boyfriend_. So, naturally, I said, _and_ do _you have a boyfriend?_ And he said…” She laughs again, nods once with fervor. _“Yep.”_

Sokka feels weak when a smile tugs at his lips. Weak, stupid. Warm.

“I didn’t see much of him at the beginning of the semester,” Mai adds, curling her fingers into the polyester fuzz of the pink rabbit by her leg. “Never usually do, when he’s all wired for those first few weeks. Except, you know, when he was at practice with Ty and I went to watch. And Zuko…” She drags in a deep breath, lets it out as a sigh. “When Zuko wants to be evasive, fucking hell, he puts his mind to it. I wasn’t gonna try to corner him to get him to fess up, or anything. And… then I met you at Spirit practice.” The smile on her lips is mild, but her eyes are squeezed into dark crescents, one flaming, one galactic.

“And… dude, I could _so_ tell you were into him, just from that first time. And, you know. He was also obviously into you. Like… I’ve never seen Zuko hold hands with anyone. Ever. Sometimes Ty tries… and fails. And I know he’s taken an acting class or two, but _shit_ , I could _not_ reconcile the Zuko I know _now_ putting up with so much _bullshit_ just to get even with Azula. Maybe when he was little, when he was still, like, trying to compete with her, but even then, like…” Mai’s eyes widen a bit, her forehead scrunching. “Nasty PDA with some random dude he doesn’t even like?” Mai laughs, hoarse and warming. “No way. Zuko would never.”

Sokka feels his whole body aflame, like one gentle prod from Mai would have him literally combusting, but the steadiness of her gaze is comforting enough, apparently, to hold him intact. Just barely.

Mai continues, “So… yeah. I kinda just thought: _who am I to interfere with fate?”_ She frowns in thought. “Or Satan, or whoever’s pulling the strings. Figured I’d let you guys run your course. See what happens. You both seemed happy, anyhow, so I didn’t wanna interfere.” She drums her acrylics on the plushie soundlessly. “I’m not all-knowing, though. Frankly, I thought it’d be Zuko who came to me first.”

Sokka manages some ghost of an asinine smile, averts his eyes to the floor. “I guess I just like you that much.”

Mai hums. “As you should.”

Sokka says nothing, likely for too long. He curls his toes into Ty Lee’s shag rug.

“Sorry,” Mai says then. Without looking, Sokka sees her sweep her hair over her shoulder. “It’s probably kind of a shocker, like. To hear all that from me.” Her head cocks to the side. “I didn’t tell anyone, though.”

“It’s a reality check, is what it is,” mutters Sokka. He smiles without feeling, rubs at his eyes. Considering he’s spent most of his break in bed, it should set off alarms in his head that he’d gladly snuggle up with Ty Lee’s pink stuffed bunny on her rug and pass out right then and there. “I’ve had a few of those lately.”

Mai waits.

Sokka shudders out a sigh. “You know how Zuko and I went to New York?”

Mai nods. Her smile is wry. “Do I ever.” She leans her head against the wall, snorts. “I’m kind of like his emergency contact, like, secondary to his uncle. So he was kind enough to alert me he was leaving the state, in case I needed him. As if I’d wanna interrupt _that_.”

“Right.” Sokka plants his palms onto the duvet, digs the heels of his hands in. “So, there, I… kind of told him how I felt.” He looks toward Mai. “That I—I like him. For real. And he kind of… shut down.”

Mai stares. Then her eyes narrow. “Is that why he’s still in New York?” She sits up, grabs her phone. “Zuko, dude,” she mutters under her breath.

Sokka’d been holding his breath, but now he’s fishmouthing. “He’s still there?”

“Yeah.” Mai fixates on her phone screen. “That’s what he told me, at least. But you can never trust men.” Then she locks her phone, looks intently into Sokka’s eyes. “You haven’t talked?”

Sokka grimaces. “Not since I got rejected at the AirTrain station.”

Mai gnaws at her lower lip. The incessant tapping of her nails against the glass of her phone puts Sokka on edge. “Okay,” she says evenly, after Sokka’s counted thirty-two taps. “Look, this probably won’t help you sleep at night, but I have—I have a feeling you didn’t get _rejected_.” She tongues the inside of her cheek. “And—okay, since I’m playing the realist here, if you did, Sokka, if you _did_ get so-called _rejected_ , then… like, Zuko’s never been in a relationship before. Could just be he’s not ready for one now. So, like, you’ll be sad about it, but there’s nothing you can do. Having said that…” Sokka meets Mai’s eyes, and to an outsider, her gaze would appear exceedingly blank. Sokka, miraculously, knows a bit better. Her sigh trails into a soft, exasperated chuckle. “I also don’t think he’s ever had feelings for anyone before. And no one’s better at avoiding confrontation than our darling Zuko, so.”

She shrugs, lips flattening into a straight line. “He’d hate it if he knew I was saying any of this. But… seeing as you came to me for advice—you did, didn’t you?” When Sokka reluctantly nods, she mirrors it with vigor. “Okay. Then… just… wait. You probably caught him off guard. Not with the fact that you like him, but… with the fact that you were probably expecting— _hoping_ —he’d, like, jump into your arms, or some shit.” When Sokka’s features tense, pained, she gives his upper arm a tentative rub. “It’s okay. You’re a romantic, too. But… Zuko chooses his words very carefully. So, you know, now that you’ve told me all… all of _this_ , my guess is he’s probably… working on it. Brooding, for sure, but… working on it.”

Sokka wants it to sink in, sink in _now, please_ , but he’s spent too long with his bones in a chill that he’s not sure things quite work that way. “I should… wait,” he echoes.

“That’s my boring answer.” Mai shrugs, shifts closer to the wall again. “You already put yourself out there. He left you hanging.”

Sokka considers this. “Do you have a non-boring answer?”

Mai’s lips tug upward. “No.”

He looks toward the collage once again. He spots a few pictures from their Point Reyes trip—Ty Lee standing on the sturdy shoulders of Azula and Suki, a chaotic group picture that Zuko looked supremely unprepared for. “I don’t know when I’ll run into him. Or _where_.”

“I’m sure whoever pulling the strings will figure that out for you.” Sokka feels Mai’s eyes on the side of his face. “Anything else on your mind?”

Sokka feels drained. “Nope.” He makes to get off the mattress, but Mai grabs him by the back of his hoodie.

“You’re staying,” she informs him, yanks with a surprisingly strong grip until he’s tumbling to the mattress again. “We bought two pounds of shrimp. And… maybe this shit will make you feel better.” She touches her toe to the trackpad of Ty Lee’s laptop so it awakens again on the paused drama.

Sokka examines the screen. “What… is it?”

Mai shakes her head minutely. “Some hetero crap. The characters are dumb as hell, too. The guy right there, that one, thinks _that_ girl with and without makeup is two different people.” She chuckles in disbelief. “I just wanna fucking strangle him. Or fight him. We’re the same height, I could take him.”

“You say that about every male lead.” Ty Lee appears between the beads. She’s shaking off her hands. “They’re not all that dumb. Also, I washed my hands three times and they still smell like shrimp juice.” She pouts, lowers down beside Sokka and lays her temple to his shoulder. She’s at rest for all of three seconds until she sits up with wild speed, plasters her cold hands onto Sokka’s face. “Okay. While I was shrimping, I decided that on _this_ eye”—Ty Lee lightly taps her thumb to Sokka’s left lower eyelid, and he tries not to flinch—“we’ll do some funky rhinestones, and on this one”—she touches the other—“we’ll do clouds! They’ll look so pretty on your skin tone. Oh, or maybe flowers. You’re staying for dinner, right, Sokka?” Her eyes are hopeful. She whirls toward Mai. “He’s staying for dinner? Yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)  
> 10 - trouble is a friend (lenka)  
> 11 - the lakes (taylor swift)  
> 12 - sliding doors (nilüfer yanya)  
> 13 - slump (stray kids)
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://taotu.tumblr.com) :)


	14. 14 - this is me trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was harder to write than i anticipated. har har. ♥ dedicated to ‘this is me trying’ anon on tumblr and the incomparable ao3 user mz dream_waking to whom i owe this story's will to go on. thank you for readin ♥

They were on in—Zuko checked his phone—eighteen minutes. Oh, now seventeen. He swore under his breath.

Dance Captain Jin—Zuko had grown to refer to her as such in his head, the same way Ty Lee had, for a while, been Bouncy Dance Team Ty Lee and the way Mai had, for a very short time very long ago, been Scary Neighbor Mai—was easygoing. But the closer he cut it, the likelier it was that Jin would send Suki to look for him, knowing Suki would have no qualms about charging into the men’s bathroom. Or worse, she’d send Haru, with whom Zuko had exchanged perhaps twenty words since joining Spirit the year before (twenty words that had all come from Haru) and yet seemed to love greeting Zuko with a slap on the back like they were longtime bros.

Zuko saw himself cringe in the mirror, but quickly schooled his features.

He dabbed at his forehead with a wadded-up, damp paper towel, did another scan of the stalls behind him to make sure they were empty, that there was no one present to bear witness to his pathetic display of stage fright. He was burning up, for fuck’s sake, and yet, he had no excuse; he’d competed with Spirit the year before (they’d lost) and was now back as a sophomore (they’d probably lose again), a sophomore who’d already been around the block, who should’ve been backstage with his team, comforting and mentoring the newbies who’d _never_ been.

Zuko grimaced at the mirror, clutched the cold granite of the counter. At this rate, he’d sweat off his stage makeup before he even set foot _on_ the stage. At this goddamn rate, he’d _pass_ out, never set foot onstage at all. What a laugh that would be. Suki would find him collapsed melodramatically across the grimy men’s bathroom floor, probably with brain damage after bloodying his skull on the counter, and there’d be a pitiful hole in Spirit’s onstage formation where Zuko would’ve been if he wasn’t so… _like this_. And they’d lose. Hell, they’d lose either way. Zuko couldn’t give himself that much credit.

He tried to drag in a deep breath, counting to ten and filling his lungs, but the air only came in turbulent, dissatisfying spurts, the same way water glugs out of a water bottle with a small opening.

Then the door smacked open. Zuko was immediately offended that someone should just— _charge_ in like that, and had to remind himself it was a fucking public bathroom, not some glamorous, cathartic boudoir. He panicked, checking his eyes for any sign of pitiful little tears. They were bloodshot, and there was sweat beading at his forehead and temples, and the fact that Ty Lee insisted they all slick their hair back for uniformity—either doused Grease-style in pomade and combed straight back, or in skull-hugging ponytails—helped none to hide it. It made Zuko feel weirdly naked, having his forehead on show. The black kohl rings around his eyes were still intact, at least. Waterproof, probably.

The stranger whistled as he sauntered up to the open sink beside Zuko. He was mid-shrug out of a faded, blue hoodie blemished by a smear of swampy green. Nearly as distracting as the stain was the sliver of stomach that showed as the shirt underneath lifted up with his arms. Zuko only realized he was staring at the stain with horror, or worse, openly objectifying the stranger whilst still clutching the raggedy paper towel close to his chin, when the stranger belted out a laugh and shook his head.

“I know, right,” he muttered, tossing his sweatshirt into the bowl of the sink and twisting the spigot on the faucet—the annoying kind that has to be held onto as the water comes out. “I told him, I swear.” The stranger shook his head. He had a fresh undercut, hair pulled into a little ponytail up top. “I was like, _dude_ , I don’t know crap about flushing out toxins—sounds like some diet tea bullshit—but a juice cleanse is _not_ gonna make your body forget about all the Jack Daniel’s.” He scrubbed at the fabric violently under the running water. Zuko neglected to inform him that it only looked like the stain was spreading, sinking its green roots deeper into the fabric. He didn’t have any stain-removal techniques to offer anyhow.

“It’ll just make you shit,” the stranger continued brightly. “He’s gonna miss it when our friend goes on ‘cos he’ll be in here, sitting on the toilet. But—you know how it goes. Murphy’s Law. We were _just_ locking down the best seats in the house when he spilled ninety-percent spinach juice on me—which he _snuck_ into the theater with him ‘cos he was worried he’d get hungry during the show, but that’s what happens when all you had before you came was _juice_. Just… liquid, a few shreds of pulp. Man, it’s common sense, am I right?” Stranger looked up, grinning affably, and— _holy attractive_ , Zuko thought numbly, eyeline filled with deep blue iris. Zuko’s paper towel slopped onto the counter, and his fingers flapped out to locate it.

“Hey,” Stranger said suddenly, releasing the faucet and straightening to full height. He was lanky, and somewhere around Zuko’s height. “You look kinda… green. Are you okay?”

Oh, fantastic. Fucking fantastic. Zuko caught sight of his own vacant stare in the mirror, the wan tinge to his skin. No wonder a perfect stranger was asking after his wellbeing. Perfect in… both senses of the word.

Zuko’s voice came out with a terrible rasp. Raspier than standard, that is. “I’m fine,” he croaked, then cleared his throat, threw the paper ball toward the trash. Missed. “Fuck.” He made to stoop and nab it from the floor, but Stranger said quietly, “I got it, man,” and snatched it up, chucked it into the trash over his shoulder.

Zuko was baffled into silence by this… peculiarly skillful display of chivalry.

“You sure?” Stranger pressed. Zuko received a critical once-over. “You’re kind of… shaking.”

 _Was he?_ “Ah,” Zuko said blankly, peering down at his indeed trembling hands. He swiveled toward the sink, unable to meet the stranger’s eyes, and clamped his hands down on its edge to quell the tremors. “It’s fine. Just nerves.”

The stranger took a few seconds to process this. “Oh! You competing?” He stuck a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathroom door, as if Zuko would be performing by the hand dryers in the men’s restroom and not on a stage.

Zuko figured his eyeliner and harem pants would’ve already given it away. Apparently not. “Yeah,” he said to the mirror. God, he really did look green. And that was through the foundation.

“Mmm,” Stranger hummed meditatively. His sink was emptying lazily, the sopping hoodie plugging the drain. “See, I’m not really a _stage_ kinda guy. Kind of… awful at public speaking, when I really think about it. But—dancing?” He hooted a laugh. “You couldn’t pay me to get up on that stage and _dance_.” A faint hesitance rippled through his features, and he abruptly, _intensely_ locked eyes with Zuko in the mirror, holding up his palm. “Because of _my_ hand-eye coordination. Because I’m not a—freaking dancer, you know. Which. You know. You are.” He gave Zuko another clinical up-and-down glance.

“And I bet you’re awesome!” Stranger rasped. “But—oh, god, what was my point? Oh, yeah. I don’t really have any, like, breathing techniques to teach you. But my sister, she used to compete all the time—spelling bees and debates and the like—and she’s _crazy_ talented but she’d always, _always_ start doubting herself, like, the second before she was supposed to go on. And what she’d do…” Stranger started to laugh, softer now, and Zuko realizes through the mirror that he’s unconsciously resisting a smile of his own.

“She’d give me her hand and ask me to squeeze it as hard as I could.” The stranger shook his head. “Yeah, I know. Like, squeeze _right_ up until it starts to hurt, and stop before it can. It was enough to distract her from her nerves, apparently.”

Zuko hadn’t been great about maintaining eye contact, so the expectations were low. It wouldn’t do to start then. “Are,” he began slowly, eyes going out of focus on the spidery veins of the granite counter, “you offering to… squeeze my hand?” Zuko wasn’t sure that would help. In fact, he’d probably be closer to his deathbed, closer to his heart bursting a few leaky holes and bleeding out right into his chest, should a hot stranger decide to hold his hand when he could already barely stand.

Stranger’s laugh came out a bit self-deprecating. “The alternative is a hug,” he states. “Or… nothing, obviously. I’d wish you luck and go back to washing green juice off my hoodie.”

Zuko half-smiled, inhaled deep, exhaled deeper. “Wishing a dancer good luck is a bad omen.”

Stranger blinked. “What?”

Zuko wiped his sweaty hand on his thigh, stuck it out toward the stranger. “Give it your best shot.” He shot him a wary side-eye. “Not too hard. I need to use it.”

Stranger smirked, snatched a paper towel to dry his hands with. “This your dominant one?”

“What? No, shut up.” Zuko choked out a half-laugh. “I need it to dance.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird! I’m squeezing your—oh, damn, you’re so sweaty.” Stranger clamped his hand over Zuko’s, slotting their thumbs together, and his _three, two, one_ drowned out Zuko’s muted apology as he _squeezed_. Zuko stared at their linked hands, dully felt and thought about the pressure of Stranger’s warm hand. “Goddamn, you have a high pain tolerance,” Stranger hissed, just as Zuko coughed on a gasp and Stranger let go, looking at him all wide-eyed. “You good, man?”

Zuko rolled out his wrist, flexed his fingers. Tried not to smile. His gaze was on his hand, where the blood was seeping back under his skin, as he said, “Yeah.”

“Nice.” Silence. “You want a hug next?”

Zuko snorted, cheeks warm. “I think I’ll pass.”

The bathroom door slammed against the wall perpendicular. Zuko’s head whipped over his shoulder. Barricading the open doorway with her hands on her hips was neither Suki nor Haru, but Dance Captain Jin herself. Stranger squawked a little belatedly, hands flying to his chest and crotch as if he weren’t fully-clothed. Jin smiled at them both.

“We gotta get backstage, champ.” Her eyebrows rose expectantly. “You coming?”

Zuko blinked. “Yeah.” He checked his reflection, befuddled by the color returning to his face, and accidentally caught the eyes of the stranger as he turned. “Um… thanks.”

Stranger didn’t seem ready to accept the gratitude, laughingly looking toward his jacket. “Don’t mention it. Bet you would’ve done the same—”

“I… don’t think I could’ve,” Zuko said honestly. “Good luck with your stain.” Then he strode to Jin, who set a palm on the small of his back, steered him out and toward the side-stage doors.

* * *

Why Sokka hadn’t thought to bring a backpack is beyond him as he shuffles out of the office of the Disabled Students’ Program with an unwieldy stack of manila envelopes hugged to his chest. Staying upright grows marginally more difficult when Suki calls him and his phone is exceptionally hard to fish out of his deep pocket, and his brain is working double-time processing _why_ forms and records can’t just be _digitized_ for efficiency as he simultaneously mutters into his phone, “But I thought you hated arugula.” Then he offhandedly recalls that morning, when he’d accidentally tried to tug on a pair of jeans only to realize he couldn’t even get his foot through the ankle hole. They’d been Zuko’s for certain—black and stretchy like every pair he owned. He pities it, a bit, that he couldn’t get them on. Now he has to haul the envelopes to Yangchen’s office up the hill, and had he… extenuating circumstances, like unusually tight jeans, he’d find no shame in hopping on the perimeter line bus that first goes down and _then_ uphill, rather than trudging those ten-ish uphill minutes like he’s now morally bound to.

He won’t bother conceptualizing how Zuko can possibly pick at wedgies.

He knocks his shoulder into the men’s bathroom door, debates for a second how he’ll go about peeing when he’s got the envelopes in one hand and Suki in the other, but when he stumbles just short of slamming bodily into none other than—Sokka’s eyes do a rapid body scan, _yes_ , it’s him— _Zuko_ , Suki’s tinny response goes in one ear and out the other as he utters, “I have to go,” and ends the call.

Zuko takes a backward step. He’s clutching his backpack by a single strap, and he’s dressed… _nicer_ , more formal, than Sokka’s ever seen him, in a neat, black sweater, black jeans that aren’t faded or torn to shreds at the knees. Heart-stopping. And, “You cut your hair,” Sokka blurts, when he notes he can see more of Zuko’s ears, that there aren’t locks curling thick and black around the lobes and back up toward the sky like they’re phototropic. Zuko nods, silent and quick.

The door thumps Sokka on the shoulder as it swings shut, jostling him out of his trance. He lets it close, moves further into the bathroom, just no closer to Zuko. Smartly, Sokka adds, “And—you’re back.”

Perhaps what makes Sokka feel the very most like he’s having an out-of-body experience is that Zuko’s looking right at him, _into_ him.

“I got back yesterday,” murmurs Zuko. When he lifts his hand to tuck his bangs behind his ear, they fall right back into place, too short to stay put. His fingers—they’re trembling.

Sokka tilts his chin, slow. “From—”

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes before he can finish. Smiles sheepishly, a bit pained, maybe. It pulls at every string connected to Sokka’s heart and then some. Zuko’s eyes dart between Sokka and the door. “Look—sorry, I—I have—an appointment?” He steals a look at his phone for the time. “In… seven minutes. Somewhere in this building. With, um, an advisor and—the department chair. Of—sorry, the Dance and Performance Studies department chair.”

For an embarrassing few seconds, Sokka scans the floor near his feet, checking for suspicious puddles of “water” or tracked-in mud, and sets his envelope stack down when he finds the coast clear. He rubs his hands off on his thighs, turns back to Zuko. His eyes go out of focus past Zuko’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s… they’re on the third floor, I think. In the wing closer to College Ave.” He points vaguely in said direction, and before Zuko can ask, he shrugs and crookedly smiles. “I run errands in here a lot.”

“Oh.” Zuko’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Sokka’s eyes must be querying, because Zuko watches him a second before he offers, “I’m… trying to declare. A major. For dance. Like… now.” He pauses. “Also trying to petition them to let me do an honors thesis.” Again, a pause, an owlish blink. “Within the next four months.”

Sokka hears himself exhale a laugh before he can even feel a smile come on. “Seriously?”

Zuko’s lips quirk.

“Hey—that’s,” Sokka laughs again, “that’s awesome.” He goes to rifle his fingers through his hair until he remembers he’s tied it back, and, in lieu, settles his hands on his hips. “Good… good luck. If only to face some crotchety faculty, y’know. In seven minutes, you said?”

Zuko breathes out a sigh through puffed lips. Sokka dares himself to not look. “Six now, probably.”

Sokka gives a hasty nod. “Right. So… is that why you’re…” He gestures to Zuko’s hand, so narrowly goes without touching skin to skin.

“Why I’m shaking?” Zuko laughs and it tears Sokka apart. “Yes, Sokka, that’s why.”

Sokka grins despite himself. “Okay, see, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t _looking_ for it, but when Katara was younger, I’d—”

“I know,” says Zuko. The edges of his smile are soft, his brow in a soft furrow.

Sokka has limited time, so he doesn’t question it. Maybe Katara’d mentioned it once—who knows what she and Zuko chat about on social media, wherever it is they’re connected. He merely offers up his open palm, and when Zuko breathes a soft laugh, clenches one hand tight around his bag strap, hovers the other over Sokka’s, barely grazing his skin, Sokka feels just a little bit more whole.

“Honors thesis, huh?” he murmurs, attempting casual—so naturally, his voice cracks, but he runs with it—as he wraps his fingers around Zuko’s ever-warm palm. It’s as easy as it’d been over the dinner table in Lower Manhattan. “Really going the full mile—god, you’re sweating.”

“Sorry,” says Zuko, but Sokka doesn’t let him tug away.

He lifts a brow, meets Zuko’s eyes with a devious look. “Not so fast.” He adjusts his grip, then clears his throat. “You know, you don’t _have_ to do the absolute most.” And now he’s just stalling, and Zuko likely knows it, too, but Sokka’s not sure how he made it this long without holding his pseudo-boyfriend’s hand, nervous sweat and all. “You don’t even have to get a degree. You could just… _graduate_. Less stress.”

“I know,” Zuko answers, faint. His hand is slack, head cocked to the side. “But… like, strangely enough, I think I can.” His chuckle is soft with disbelief. “And if it’s the last thing I’m dependent on my father for, I’d… I’d like to go out, you know, wiping my ass with a dance diploma.”

Sokka chokes out a laugh, and he’s _beaming_ , beaming like a complete fool as he catches Zuko’s eye, his tight-lipped, self-satisfied smile. He’s no longer trembling, but Sokka figures a little squeeze can’t hurt. For luck.

“Tell me when,” Sokka says, and when Zuko nods and looks at their hands, Sokka’s glad for it. Glad to be so lucky as to watch him like this, unguarded.

It takes an embarrassingly long time of Sokka gritting his teeth with fingers slipping against Zuko’s clammy skin for Zuko to finally flinch backward, and without so much as an iota of discomfort in his features. Rolling out his wrist, Sokka breathes, “Fuck, either my game is slipping, or you—”

“High pain tolerance,” Zuko fills in, half-smiling. Sokka notices it—would have to be eyeless not to—when Zuko visibly takes him in, like he’s psyching himself up. Then Zuko sighs. “I should probably… go.”

Sokka nods with urgency, shamelessly shattering his aura of _cool_ that he can’t be sure he ever succeeded in forging. “Probably down to three minutes now.” He nods at the door, smiles. “I think two stairs at a time’ll beat the elevator.”

“Right,” Zuko breathes, and still, he doesn’t move. His hand, the one Sokka’d held, curls and uncurls at his side. “Sokka, I… I do want to talk. Please don’t… think I don’t.”

For a moment, Sokka considers faking amnesia—more like making it less of a _big deal_ —and responding _about what?_ but he can’t possibly be a good enough liar to manage that. “Okay,” he utters, a second too late. He’s so caught up in analyzing Zuko’s eyes, wondering if the answer’s already hidden there, as if the glint of the fluorescent lights off his irises could tell Sokka _yeah, buckle up, I’ll be letting you down easy_ , that he almost misses it when Zuko smiles, albeit weakly. _Apologetically?_ is Sokka’s panicked first thought.

“I’m sorry for the silence,” Zuko says, low and soft, just for him to hear—it makes Sokka feel special, or then it’s just precautionary on Zuko’s part, should anyone be eavesdropping in a stall mid-crap. The door opens, startling them both, and a whistling man weaves past them, heads toward the urinals. An irritated, blank mask falls over Zuko’s face, but it softens quickly. He refocuses on Sokka. “I’ll… apologize again, though. Better. When we talk. Soon, I promise.”

Sokka’s heart is still. Then Zuko tips his chin, turns for the door, but not without squeezing Sokka’s elbow, murmuring, “I missed you.”

And the door swings shut behind him.

Sokka can’t quite sink dramatically to his knees, overwhelmed by equal, battling amounts of hope and despair—at least not white there’s a bald dude at the opposite wall, still whistling as he pisses. So he gathers up his papers, immediately regrets his decision to ever put them down on a bathroom floor when he notices a wet spot on an envelope, and vigorously pumps his palm full of hand sanitizer on his way out.

He doesn’t leave the building, instead methodically makes his way up to the east wing of the third floor. He passes door after door until he spots one with a golden plaque declaring _Department Chair_ , takes a seat on the wooden bench outside. The voices behind the door are muffled, and there are several, though one resonates at a distinctly _Zuko_ wavelength. Sokka can’t make out a single word, but there he remains, hugging his manila envelopes and staring through anyone who strolls past. He doesn’t have time to check how long he’s brainlessly idled when he hears chairs scratch along the office floor, signaling the end of Zuko’s meeting.

Sokka flees for the elevator in the west wing. The last thing he wants is to corner Zuko—he can practically hear Mai’s voice telling him _wait_ , the singular syllable bouncing around in his skull like a Windows 95 screensaver—but he’d simply… wanted to be there. Without actually being there.

The brisk air prickles his face and neck once Sokka makes it outside. He hikes the hill to the computer science building, deposits the envelopes in Yangchen’s dark, empty office, descends five flights of stairs to the deserted basement computer labs—where no one would dares to set foot until the semester officially starts—and in the cold, B.O.-fusty comfort, he takes out his phone.

_Thursday 4:17pm_

**Sokka**

I missed you too

* * *

“I’m gonna do it,” Aang says on the five-second trek from their apartment to next door. “Tonight. I’m finally gonna do it.” He grins at Sokka. There’s a blue sweatband clinging to his forehead that he’d earlier claimed was a stylistic choice, even if it forces the front bits of his hair to stand only more vertical.

Sokka lifts a brow at the linoleum underfoot. All the years he’s known Aang, there’s only ever been one thing he always seems to be working up to do but never actually does. “Sure, buddy.”

“Thanks for the undying faith, dearest friend of mine,” Aang continues, jolly, “but I have a _really_ good feeling about tonight. Like—I’m _going_ to do it.”

The door they’ve yet to knock on flies open. Toph stands beyond it, sporting a thick green sweater and athletic shorts. “No you’re not.” They step aside, make a no-frills gesture toward the indoors.

Aang proceeds to pout. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” He heads sulkily for the kitchen, armed with heavy canvas totes.

“That’s what you think,” Toph sighs. Then, “Sokka, get the fuck inside, you’re letting the cold in. No, your boyfriend’s not here yet, _yes_ , Azula is here, and yes, I put a new tissue box in the living room just for you in case you have too much wine and start crying tonight.” Their eyes narrow. “I think that’s everything for the status report.”

Sokka, scandalized, steps over the threshold, narrowly avoids being body-slammed by the door when Toph shuts it. “I didn’t cry last time!” he protests.

Toph turns away with a stony look, shuffles toward the couch. “Yeah, but I bet you cried after.”

Sokka grimaces at their back. At the truth. Anyway, he feels like a vastly different person now from the one who, that fateful evening a semester ago, had stumbled upon pictures of Suki and Yue wrapped up in one another, held his breath for the rest of the night, then bemoaned his entire existence the moment he and Aang were alone.

In the kitchen, Aang’s unloading their supplies—among them margarita mix and several boxes of vegan Cheez-Its—and Toph’s busy getting comfortable in their designated nook of the couch, and yet Sokka can’t help but feel like all eyes are turned his way when his phone buzzes innocuously with Zuko’s name alighting on the screen.

Hesitantly, he backs himself into the nearest wall, swipes open their conversation. He has to cringe, faced with the _I missed you too_ Zuko never acknowledged.

_Sunday 7:03pm_

**zuko**

hey

sorry i should’ve texted sooner

are u ok pretending we’re good tn?

Sokka swallows, momentarily lets his arms fall limp at his sides. Two days earlier, when Aang had proposed a second round to their pre-semester get-together, expanded guest list included, he’d expressly pulled Sokka aside in the wine section at Trader Joe’s, asked him if he’d be okay with Zuko coming. Sokka hadn’t considered saying _no_ for even a second, had good-naturedly shoved Aang away and laughed out an _of course_ , because he’d feel like shit being the wedge that cleaves cracks in their friend group. And all because of feelings. _Stupid_ feelings.

And boy, do those feelings seem especially stupid _now_ , now that he’s getting weird, antsy butterflies in his stomach at the thought of being in the same room with Zuko again, when they’re _not_ pressed for time and don’t have catch-up talk to whittle down those strained minutes.

On the bright side, he’ll have eight buffers.

Sokka lifts his phone, taps out of his and Zuko’s conversation. His penultimate messages are from Mai, a few hours earlier.

**mai**

yo

sokka

you know zuko’s gonna be there tonight right?

**Sokka**

Yeah I gave Aang the green light ha

**mai**

ok just checking

you need anything?

which had puzzled him… in an endeared way. Even if Mai could’ve simply been asking if he and Aang needed her to bring extra guac. So he’d said:

**Sokka**

I’m good

**mai**

ok

lmk if that changes

His lips twitch at a smile. Zuko’s name rolls into view again at the top of the screen.

**zuko**

that came out wrong

like a total dick move sorry

u know what i mean though

before we talk

are u good with

being normal

Sokka sighs, rubs a hand over his face. He’s tempted to joke that none of this was ever normal to begin with. And he thinks of Mai, who knows Sokka’s turmoil, knows their sham is on the rocks because of Sokka’s feelings. Mai, whose knowing eyes will likely be on him all night, stealthy enough for no one else to take notice, constant enough to be dependable.

He’ll probably have to tell Zuko he fessed up to her, too. Oops.

Whenever they _talk_ , that is.

And then he thinks of Katara, who’d kept one eye on her own business and the other on Sokka when they’d been at home together, as if wary he’d pitch himself out a second story window the moment she turned her back. And Aang, who… well. Sokka reconsiders. With the way he’d laughed things off in Trader Joe’s, Aang’s probably under the impression everything’s been smoothed over. But… Katara. And Mai.

Goddammit. They should’ve sorted their shit out before stepping into a minefield.

His phone vibrates again.

**zuko**

i just think it’d be easier

than explaining anything to ppl

sokka?

**Sokka**

Hi sorry

Yeah no I get it

Same

I mean

Same as in it’d be weird to be with them and do anything that isn’t what we did all last semester haha

_All of it was practice_ , thinks Sokka, _for_ _when we’d actually have to pretend things were normal._ And not like Zuko was tying sailor knots with Sokka’s insides.

**zuko**

ok

we’ll be there soon

mai’s already acting suspicious

i’ll just try to shut up so no one thinks i’m acting weird

Oh, so Zuko’s forecasting that things will be awkward. Splendid. It’s not as if he’s alone in that, but Sokka had been hoping to ease into their practiced—whatever they are, _were_ , now that he knows Zuko’s coming and won’t be bushwhacked by him in some public bathroom.

At once, the bathroom door in the apartment opens and three girls pour out. Sokka goggles at Azula, Yue, and Suki, and the latter promptly sings out his name.

“Sokka!” Suki prances over to him, wraps him in a hug. As she pulls back, rubbing warmth into his upper arms, she mumbles, “Why…” and looks between him, Toph, and Aang. “Why’re you being weird in the corner?”

Sokka scoffs, counters with, “Why were all three of you in the bathroom together?”

Yue smiles, waves a vaguely-threatening object at him. “I was piercing Suki’s ears,” she says.

“I wanted to see if she’d bleed.” Azula marches into the kitchen, looking displeased.

Suki gives a fond eye roll, pats Sokka roughly on the chest. “She just put a third hole on each lobe, see?” She cocks her head cutely, presenting her ears to him. He notes she must’ve had a fresh chop—her bob barely reaches the tips of her earlobes, shaved at the back of her neck. There’s a little crescent moon-shaped stud in each new piercing.

“Cool,” chuckles Sokka. “You’re getting holier by the day, Sooks.”

“Holier is right.” She curls her fingers into Sokka’s sleeve, tugs him toward the couch. “Have you done any interviews lately? I feel like I spent the whole damn break on LeetCode.”

And… things are normal. Toph kicks their bare feet up on the coffee table, Katara emerges from her bedroom to argue with Aang about who has rightful claim over the crappy oven.

“But I was going to make brownies!” Pointedly, she slaps a bag of chocolate chips on the counter.

Aang perks up. “Vegan brownies?” His smile grows. “Vegan _pot_ brownies?”

She sighs, swats halfheartedly at Aang’s shoulder as she maneuvers around him to reach the fridge. “ _No_ ,” she huffs. “Salted caramel brownies.”

Aang scowls. “But I need an oven for my famous baked tofu.”

In the living room, Sokka barks out a laugh. “Famous where? Aang City, population one?”

Aang shoots him a look that screams _you’re lame_.

Yue examines the worn, physical copy of Aang’s recipe. “Sounds really good, Aang.”

“You have your own oven next door,” Katara murmurs, decisively preheating the oven.

Aang pouts, melting down over the counter. “I don’t wanna go over there _alone_. And I can’t leave it _unattended_. That’s a fire hazard! But—I need _protein_ ,” he cries out. “What am I gonna _do?”_

Azula’s already sitting on the counter beside Aang’s defeated head. “Why don’t you just use an air fryer?” she mutters, scrolling sluggishly on her phone.

Aang is silent. Then he straightens, turns his gaze on Azula. “Azula… these pants”—he pinches at said pants—“my adoptive dad wore them in the seventies. I bulk-buy frozen tofu. Do I look like I’m made of air fryers?” He spreads his arms, the question hanging in the air. “And as much as I wish it was, this isn’t vegan Chez Panisse.”

Katara’s hugging a mixing bowl. Her mixing turns aggressive. “Are you hating on our kitchen now? It’s identical to yours!”

Aang groans. “ _No_ , I just—”

Azula hops off the counter, opens a cabinet, hauls an appliance the size of a small child onto the counter.

Aang’s eyes go wide. “Is that—”

“Mhm. Use it.”

Aang’s lips form a small _o_. He exhales, steadying, then looks Azula dead in the eye. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

Azula returns his gaze in silence. Her throat bobs, possibly with a gag. “Please… never say that to me again.” A knock echoes on the door. “Finally,” she calls, squeezing past Aang to let in the newcomers.

It’s as if Ty Lee launches off a springboard when she tackle-hugs Azula.

Mai and Zuko loom behind her, as tall and black-clad as Sokka remembers—as if he hadn’t last seen Mai a couple weeks ago, Zuko only a couple days. He shifts deeper into his corner of the couch, glues his palms together between his thighs, before realizing he ought to be a semi-decent boyfriend.

“What’s up,” hollers Toph, rupturing Sokka’s eardrum as he steps over their legs.

“What’s up with _you!”_ trills Ty Lee, but her attention is derailed when she spots Yue in the kitchen and squeals. _“Yue!”_

Mai and Zuko are stepping out of their boots. Then Mai straightens, drops yet another canvas tote into Sokka’s arms. “I brought guac.” Sokka blinks, peers inside at an industrial-sized plastic canister of guacamole, then follows Mai’s figure over his shoulder as she sweeps into the living room and plops heavily down in an armchair. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she tells Toph.

“Hi.”

Sokka whirls back around, catches the bag before it slips from his grasp, narrowly saves himself from splattering guac across the floor. He locks onto Zuko’s gaze, tentative but still unwavering.

Sokka recovers. Somewhat. “Hey,” he breathes, and Zuko looks warm in his worn hoodie, so Sokka asks a silent question with his flickering eyes and Zuko responds by taking Sokka’s cheek in his hand, pecking him on the lips.

Sokka’s clinging to the tote straps as Zuko steps back. His eyes take a calm arc over the apartment, and he touches the side of Sokka’s neck. Then he goes to join Mai without another word.

It… could’ve gone worse. Sokka’s lips tickle and he thinks his heart might be beating unhealthily fast, but it could’ve gone worse—and not thanks to him, for fuck’s sake. He breathes out, makes for the refrigerator, where he knocks his head on a cold shelf when Ty Lee climbs aboard his back.

Sokka considers dinner a success. Aang air-fries tofu and Suki makes dumplings again at Aang’s vehement behest and while everyone else enjoys Katara’s un-vegan brownies, Aang inhales semi-sweet baking chips straight from the bag. Nine seconds out of every ten, Sokka’s watching Zuko, who always manages to position himself just far enough away from Sokka to not be a tactile craving but to be right where Sokka’s eyes naturally come to rest. Sokka reasons that no one’s going to call him out for staring at his _boyfriend_ , anyhow, and he’s… well. In his mind, he’s making up for lost time, drinking in the little makings of Zuko’s presence that he can’t replay with such vividness from his own memory bank; the long-suffering face he makes when Ty Lee tries to feed him a bite of brownie, the little quirk to his mouth when Mai shows him something on her phone and the blue-light makes the tip of his nose glow white, the way he grumbles under his breath that he doesn’t like red wine but then Mai pours him a glass and a quarter-hour later his lips and cheeks are ruddy.

They’re gathered around the living room coffee table. Sokka’s on the floor, cross-legged, beside Suki and Yue, the latter wrapped around the former with eyes closed, cheek against the back of Suki’s neck. Sokka can see Suki’s zooming in on her class schedule on her phone.

Aang rises from his perch on the couch armrest, taps his knife against his (Azula’s) crystal wine glass with bungling force (Azula winces). “I hereby call this second biannual pre-semester quaint social gathering to order.”

Suki smirks, looks up from her phone. “We’ve been here for two hours.”

Aang’s eyes go round. “And no one called it to order! I’m trying to start a tradition here!”

“Okay, Baldy, I’ll start your quaint tradition for you,” huffs Toph, “by asking how this could ever become a tradition. Literally everyone here is graduating except us.” With their finger in the air, they trace a triangle between themself, Katara in the armchair, and Azula right beside them. “Don’t tell me half of you aren’t fucking off the second you’re done here.”

Aang rubs a hand over his very-much-not-bald head and insists, “We’ll come back!” He’s cradling his glass to his chest, like it needs the warmth of his bosom. He takes a moment to regard everyone in the circle of ten. “Won’t we?”

There’s a beat of silence. Suki glances at Sokka, and he gives her a thoughtful pout.

“I want to leave the Bay Area and never come back,” Zuko states. Mai snorts with gusto, turns a wry smile on him. It’s Toph, Azula, Mai, and Zuko on the couch, all sitting with varying degrees of repose. Zuko’s posture is the straightest. He glances at Mai, at Toph, then Aang. “But I—I guess I could come back.”

Toph swats at Aang’s thigh. “You better not be giving him puppy eyes,” they huff. “I want everyone who wants to fuck off to have the freedom to fuck off.”

“But…” Aang sags onto the armrest of the armchair. Katara, in said chair, shifts to make room for him. For a moment, his lips are parted, eyes shiny as he peers at the candles flickering on the windowsill. Then he stands back up fast enough to startle Katara. “Fine. You’re right. I’m not… gonna be anyone’s ball and chain. But I’m _also_ not gonna think about anyone leaving until I absolutely have to. For all I know, nobody—nobody but Zuko—even has _plans_ to leave, am I right?!” He grins, toothy and edging on manic. “Maybe we’ll stay in town! Or work in the city! Hey, who’s staying and going to grad school?!”

Another pin-drop silence. Then Ty Lee sits up against Mai’s shins. “I’m still waiting to hear back about the physics fellowship,” she states, cheeks dimpling. Mai squeezes the back of her neck. “But I have reason to be optimistic. And then… then I’d stick around for—who _knows_ how long!”

“No shit!” Aang grins. They exchange a high-five that Aang doesn’t quite let go of, his hand engulfing hers in a squeeze. “That’s legit. You gotta let me know when I can start calling you Doctor.” Aang finally frees her, scans the circle expectantly. “Anyone else got a plan?” With lightning speed, he holds up a finger in front of Katara’s nose. “Sorry, what I meant to say was: does anyone _except Katara_ have a plan?”

“What?!” Katara scoffs.

Aang waves her off. “Even with a year left I know you have _some_ plan. So—”

“That’s not fair,” she argues. “How do you know I’m not just as clueless and stressed as everyone else here?”

Aang turns toward her with a peaceable smile. “ _Because_.” He shrugs. “Gyatso never made me a yearbook so I don’t know _exactly_ how superlatives work, but you’re, y’know. Just like Sokka’s _Most Likely to Invent Something That’ll Show Up in the As Seen on TV Section at Walmart_ and Suki’s _Most Likely to Become a MILF_ and Toph’s _Most Likely to Have Themself Cryogenically Frozen_ , you’re… Katara! _Most Likely to Have Running Water and Electricity and Profitable Stock Market Investments and Probably Be Secretary-General of the UN When Aang’s Dual Humanities Degree Fucks Him Over and He Needs to Come Live in Your Doghouse_. Or… _Most Likely to Succeed_. Same thing. I have higher expectations of you, is all.”

“I would just like to say,” Sokka interjects, “that as long as I can scout a gen-Z Billy Mays to market the goods on TV, you’ll eat your words—”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” says Katara, angling herself toward Aang in the armchair, “but if you’re not, it’s not fair. Or true! I don’t have a ten-year plan like you think I do! I don’t—I don’t know if _anything_ I’ll try to do will _ever_ work out!”

Sokka arches an eyebrow at the spike in his sister’s volume, then feels a pointy finger jab between his ribs.

At his right, Suki smiles sweetly. “I’ll invest in your…” Slowly, she blanks. “What are you planning to sell?”

“Thermal soup hats,” Sokka supplies. When he can see Yue’s lips start to tremble, he gives her stern shake of his head. “Hey now, you see, it’s kind of ingenious, because the heat of the soup will keep your head warm, and drinking the soup from your hat will keep your stomach warm.” Suki lifts a brow, seemingly ready to withdraw her promised venture capital, and over her shoulder, Aang’s now hugging Katara’s head to his stomach, doing no favors to her hair. Sokka’s phone vibrates noisily on the wooden floor.

**zuko**

can we talk now

Sokka blinks. He cups his phone with both hands, looks up to find Zuko watching him over the coffee table.

**Sokka**

You mean right this second??

His heart lurches into a nervous drumbeat just watching Zuko pick up his phone to respond.

**zuko**

yeah

unless u wanna be here for this

Sokka considers, eyes flitting to Yue whispering in Suki’s ear, to Katara, whose eyes burn holes into Aang’s sweatband, then to the cluster on the couch. As much as he knows he should be cherishing every drop of quality time he can wring out of having his friends all together in the same place, he hadn’t expected Aang to prompt a genuine discussion about that amorphous notion of post-grad also known as _the near future_. He must pull some face at the thought, because now, Zuko’s definitely, _definitely_ smiling, thumbs flying over his phone screen.

**zuko**

ok

then can u get us out of here somehow

**Sokka**

We can go next door

**zuko**

perf

“I forgot the tortilla chips,” Sokka says abruptly and several decibels too loud. He's on his feet, casting a shadow over… a bowl of tortilla chips on the coffee table.

Azula spares him the sort of once-over he imagines she gives the poor folks who spend afternoons flyering near the student union, begging for someone, _anyone_ , to be _interested in helping to alleviate food insecurity on campus?_ “I just filled that bowl ten minutes ago,” she says, unamused.

Sokka sucks on his lower lip, lets it go. “I forgot the tortilla chips,” he repeats, steps over Suki’s legs. “Hey, Zuko, you’re—a strong guy. With muscles. Come help me.”

He takes a sideways sashay toward the door, relieved to see Zuko rise from the couch. Not that he can quite look Zuko in the eye as he approaches, though he should feel like a professional after gawking at him all night.

“At least they’re getting a room,” mutters Toph as they tuck their arms behind their head.

“We’re getting chips,” Sokka insists.

“Okay, Soup Helmet.”

“It’s soup—” Zuko takes him by the elbow as he passes, guides him toward the door. “Never mind.”

“Maybe if you’d kept coming to the gym with me last semester like you said you would, you wouldn’t need Zuko’s help carrying some corn chips.”

Sokka groans under his breath, but the door slams between them before he can get in the last word. And then it’s just him and Zuko and the hollow echo of the hallway on that five-second trip from one door to the other.

Sokka digs in his jeans pocket for his keys, chances a shaky glance toward Zuko. At the very same time, Zuko’s eyes flicker his way, then promptly to the floor. “Thanks,” Zuko murmurs.

“Don’t mention it.” Sokka can’t be sure what he’s being thanked for. He gives the door handle a hearty shove, should it be one of those days their door decides locking simply isn’t a thing doors do, but it doesn’t budge. So he fumbles with his key, cheeks flushing fiercely when they nearly slip from his grip. “How’d your meeting go?” Sokka asks, and when the door is unlocked, he gives it a little kick to let Zuko in first. “With the dance department chair?”

The door’s about to close by the time Zuko finally moves, jolting to step inside. Sokka looks intently at the back of his head, but the second Zuko profiles, closing and locking the door becomes incredibly interesting.

“Well,” says Zuko, quiet and a little grating in that warm, familiar way. “Like… It went well. I’ll be busy.”

Sokka hums, smiles without eye contact, waves Zuko toward his room. He’d spent a split second considering they have their _chat_ on the couch, but the cold apartment feels too spacious for just the two of them. He thinks of their friends, just a couple walls away. “That’s what you wanted, though, right?”

“Yeah.” There’s a smile in Zuko’s voice.

“Then I’m glad.” Sokka sits on his bed with his palms wedged between his thighs. He watches Zuko close the door, unlace his boots, leave them where he always left them… in the _before_. He almost snorts. _Your melodrama is impressive_ , he thinks, but doesn’t follow through on giving his own cheek a good slap.

The mattress gives under Zuko’s weight. There’s a safe foot or so between them—not that Sokka’s actively guesstimating.

“Sorry I ran off like that,” sighs Zuko. Sokka’s watching his hands. He’s sure they’re warm—had felt their warmth on his cheek when Zuko had kissed him, on his elbow when they’d seared through his shirt. “When we—”

“You had somewhere to be.” Sokka chuckles. “It was just… unlucky, y’know. Running into me for the first time in a month in some bathroom.”

“It wasn’t unlucky,” Zuko says, like he’s insisting. Sokka lifts his eyes, and then Zuko’s pulling his knee up onto the mattress, angling himself toward Sokka. “It… a month. It was really a whole month?”

Sokka quirks a brow. He nods before he can do the math, but the knowledge has sat under his skin for four weeks—third week of December to third week of January. So, yeah. He knows.

Part of Sokka wants to scream and shake Zuko by the shoulders and beg him to just _hurry up_ , but it isn’t as simple as that, even if there’s a strange uneasiness mounting in him the longer he evades Zuko’s eyes. And yet, he can’t bring himself to just _look_.

“I’m sorry—”

Sokka laughs, weak, but distinct enough to rudely interrupt. “I know you’re sorry,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to say it again. Like…” He shrugs, smacks his hands against his knees defeatedly. “We can just… issue a blanket apology. For everything we might be sorry for. Like—the way I’m sorry for ambushing you. And expecting something I wasn’t really allowed to expect.” His nostrils flare. “And for…” _Thinking about you every day we were apart?_ No. Well— _yes_ , obviously, but he’s not going to fucking say that _now_. Anyhow, Zuko must know. “Uh. Kinda creeping on you tonight.” He rubs at the burning back of his neck, chuckles sheepishly. “I’ll try to stop.”

“Don’t.”

Sokka blinks, meets Zuko’s eyes out of instinct. “Don’t what?”

Zuko only stares like he’s suffered a Freudian slip, lips sealed.

Sokka puffs out a laugh. “Don’t stop creeping on you?”

Zuko unfreezes only to grimace. His foot taps a restless beat against the floor. “I… guess that’s what I meant, yeah.”

Hesitantly, Sokka says, “Well, easy enough.”

Zuko smiles—and promptly scrubs it away with his hand, agitation in his movements. “Apparently,” he says, “I’ve been thinking for a month about what I want to say to you.” He exhales. “And I still don’t have it all figured out.”

“That’s okay. Frankly, I’d take anything at this point.” Sokka scratches his jaw, lips quirking dryly. “Any… scraps. As long as they’re not apologies, I’d take any scraps you throw at me.”

“Of course you would,” Zuko breathes, and when Sokka looks, he’s shaking his head, doing a number on a bit of skin on his cuticle. Sokka takes him by the wrist, tugs his hands apart. Zuko is pliant, so Sokka lets him go, leaves his hand on the sheets. “Of course you would. Because you’re good. You just… _are_.”

Sokka’s brow scrunches.

“You’re so patient,” mumbles Zuko. “You always wait for me to finish my thoughts. Not—not everyone does that. And you’ve never… you never pry. You always wait for me to tell you things on my own time. And even when—we first started this, and I was being, just, this cagey asshole, and I’d ignore you for weeks at a time, you’d let me come and sleep here after dance like it was nothing.” His voice grows thinner. “And every time we kissed and I panicked and had—had a _million_ reasons to want to keep going but only one to stop, you were—still… still so patient.

“And I owed it to you, to not keep you waiting. Just once.” Zuko’s lips thin, press together, and Sokka breathes out, unbearably loud in the silent room, and touches Zuko’s hand on the mattress. But Zuko shakes his head before he can speak. “And the one time I should’ve…” Quickly, his fingers scramble to lace with Sokka’s on the mattress. “But I couldn’t, and I hurt you. I let you down.”

“You didn’t—”

“Yeah. I did.”

Sokka feels disembodied watching Zuko lay his other hand to the inside of Sokka’s palm, enclosed.

Zuko breathes shallowly. “I wanted to fix it but you were so far and I… yeah, for a bit, I thought was gonna follow you all the way to Washington, because I’ve never liked anyone even close to the way I like you, and that makes even people like _me_ think about grand gestures, which…” Zuko shakes his head. His bangs are no longer long enough to hide behind, and Sokka can see the tension in his brow, the way his eyes are unfocused though they haven’t left his lap. “First time for everything. But—then I didn’t. I thought I’d ruined it. And—what was I supposed to say, anyway? When I showed up? I didn’t think anything could help. I’d only make… things worse. Like I am right now, probably. I was so stupidly scared of putting it into words, even if I… knew. What I felt.” Zuko cringes, or looks to. Sokka, meanwhile, almost wants to laugh, because it feels like all his blood is swarming to his head. “But, uh.” Zuko hesitates. “Sorry—”

Sokka has enough of a grasp on reality to give him a warning eye.

Zuko half-rolls his own. “Mai…”

Sokka licks his lips, finds himself smiling at their hands. “I figured.”

“I don’t think she told me everything, but.” Zuko’s middle finger traces over his pulse. “It was… it was enough to know you were still the same. The same, as in… patient. Like always.”

Patient. _Or just stunted by shock, until the gloom hit,_ muses Sokka.

“I didn’t deserve that,” says Zuko. “Don’t. After I—or even before that. I’ve never been as good for you as you’ve been for me.”

To cool the buzzing between his temples, in his veins, Sokka shuts his eyes. “It’s funny,” he mumbles, gazing into the darkness of his eyelids.

Zuko doesn’t answer right away. “What is?”

“That you say you don’t deserve it.” It feels weird to acknowledge aloud, this _thing,_ his _… patience,_ that Zuko seems to find such a constant, and to which Sokka’s never once given a thought. “Because… it’s not yours to give.” He blinks open his eyes, brushes his fingertips against Zuko’s knee, a feeble touch, lets them curl into the sheets. “It’s mine. And… it belongs with you. I don’t even have to think about it. It’s just how it is. I decide, every day, that I—that I care about you. And I guess that’s how it shows.”

Sokka takes a breath. Then he tugs his hand free, kicks off his shoes, and scoots up the bed until he’s propped against the headboard. “C’mere.”

Zuko’s face is opaque as he eyes Sokka. And still, Sokka has to put his tender trust in what words they _have_ said—words he’s not sure to forget—even on the off-chance he’s slipped into some parallel universe where such confessions live.

Zuko turns, crawls on his hands and knees until he’s kneeling on his haunches by Sokka’s knees. He looks uncertain, so Sokka offers his arm, tugs gently on the shoulder of Zuko’s hoodie until he settles into Sokka’s side, stiff and a bit awkward. They’re eye-level but Zuko’s jaw is clenched, so Sokka tentatively cups the opposite side of Zuko’s head, presses a light kiss to his hair. And at once, Zuko swallows audibly, sags into him until his cheek hits Sokka’s chest, until his arms are wrapped tight like a harness around Sokka’s waist.

Sokka’s tempted to go full boa constrictor, swaddle Zuko with his limbs and never, _ever_ fucking let go now that he’s got him like this, but the ice feels thin. It’s too precarious. He pets his fingers through Zuko’s hair, rests his other hand light over Zuko’s arm on his stomach.

Sokka’s a thousand percent sure Zuko can hear the weight behind the thuds of his heart. Quietly, he says, “Confirm or deny.”

“What?” mumbles Zuko.

Sokka pictures the little crinkle to his brow and grins. “I wasn’t done, baby,” he chastises gently. Then he inhales deep, looks toward the water-stained ceiling. “Confirm or deny: you’re not good for me.”

Silence. Zuko sighs. “Confirm.” His voice is barely a breath, and his cheek is warm on Sokka’s chest.

Sokka could dream up a dozen disgusting puns about Zuko and his current literal proximity to Sokka’s heart. “Interesting.”

Zuko snorts, and not out of amusement.

“Now you ask me,” Sokka demands. “The same thing. Same topic. This is an open forum.”

“What…”

“Just ask me. _Confirm or deny._ That’s all you have to say.”

Zuko burrows further into his chest. And, begrudgingly, he drawls, “Confirm or deny.”

“Deny!” shouts Sokka, like he has to beat someone to the buzzer. “Because… sorry.” He chuckles, feels Zuko relax post-outburst. “ _Because_ …” He thumps his head back against the wall. “You know, sometimes I’d catch myself wondering that, too. I mean… the opposite. It’d just kind of… hit me like an anvil, like… how, _why_ do _I_ get to date _you?_ And then I’d remember I wasn’t. Not actually. And then it’d all make sense again until the next time it’d happen, when I’d watch you dance or see you with your friends or when you’d… do something nice for me.”

Zuko’s fingers curl into his shirt near his ribs. Sokka’s eyes flicker downward, and he doesn’t dare move, but still he has a bird’s eye view of Zuko’s eyelashes, batting in slow blinks.

Sokka continues, “So I… deny. ‘Cos… I think that about you, and you think that about me. But… _I’m_ not great _all_ the time. Definitely not. And I think… I think we can’t trust only ourselves when it comes to stuff like this. Or—I _know_ we can’t, because right now I’m hearing you say I’m— _better_ , in some way, and it can’t be that absolute, it can’t…” He trails off. He bites the tip his tongue, then, and tips his chin so his nose brushes Zuko’s hair. “Okay, I’m gonna say something you’ll probably hate and I’m not gonna _tell_ you not to run off, but it’d be nice if you didn’t,” he murmurs.

Zuko huffs out his exhale. “Alright.”

Sokka hopes he said it with a smile. At the very least, he’s lax against Sokka’s chest, his grip no looser. “Thank you.” He pinches at the wrist cuff of Zuko’s sweatshirt, eyes drawn to the window, to the friendly, yellowy lighting of neighbors’ windows outside glowing against the pitch black. “So I just—I _just_ said we can’t trust ourselves with how we compare, but I think I’m allowed to trust myself with how I feel. Because… I’m kind of an expert at that. Like, I’d _like_ to think no one else at our school knows cloud-native apps like I do, but I can’t be sure. But… this is different. I _have_ to be sure.

“And I know I’m happy when you’re around. That can’t be a bad thing. Even—even when you’re pissed off at me, when you _tell_ me you’re pissed off at me, or you’re just— _sitting_ there, near me, I’m happy about it. Things feel better when… I can feel them with you.”

Zuko, of course, says nothing. But he doesn’t leap out of Sokka’s arms, or out the damn window, and Sokka feels an unanticipated surge of fearlessness in the face of the silence, even if his head and chest are only warm from Zuko’s body heat and he’s stone-cold sober, having spent all night nursing a glass of wine that never once touched his lips, probably out of spite for Toph.

“And… yeah, I also like cuddling you. And kissing you in public. And, uh, in private. And I like holding your hand—though I’ve heard it’s not your favorite thing, so, like. Thanks? And I love your friends. Even if I’m happy to see them because… they’re _them_ , they make me think of you. And I like that. I like the way they love you. I like the way I _think_ I kind-of-maybe got Azula’s pseudo-sibling-approval to date you when we weren’t actually dating. And I like that you’re useless with laundry and have no idea you have the best party trick right up your sleeve ‘cos you’re basically an acrobat and that you broke some laws to drive our whole crew to Point Reyes and that you stole from your dad so we could… take a trip together.”

Sokka finally shuts his mouth. He blinks in a flurry at the window, realizing he’s been talking _at_ Zuko for a whole tirade’s worth. When the silence inevitably stretches between them, he finds himself clearing his throat, the weight of his hands growing hesitant on Zuko’s body.

“I don’t, uh… did I get my point across?” Sokka asks, a touch softer.

Zuko shifts to peer up at him, then sits up fully, settling his back against the headboard.

Sokka stares hopelessly, sinking an anchor into Zuko’s gaze. His _point?_ What is his point? That he’s unthinkably stupid? _And_ stupid for Zuko? _You’re doing a spanking job of selling yourself, bud. The full fucking package._ “You probably knew all that to begin with,” Sokka thinks aloud, frowning. “Because of what I said back in New—but now you said—at least I _think_ you said you like me, unless I heard wrong, so I guess I just thought I might…”

Zuko cracks a smile.

Sokka takes it in, baffled.

Zuko’s close enough that Sokka can feel it when he sighs out his nose, definitely feels it when Zuko lifts a hand and it disappears in Sokka’s periphery, and he’s—oh, he’s tugging out Sokka’s hair tie. He flexes his fingers to roll it onto his wrist, and then he meets Sokka’s eyes again. “You were on such a roll,” mutters Zuko. “Then you suddenly lost all your steam.”

Sokka fishmouths. Scoffs. “You—you weren’t saying anything!”

“I like listening to you,” Zuko answers, pinching at the sheet between them. A half-smile curves his mouth again.

“Are you—?” croaks Sokka. He drops his chin toward his chest, and his hair falls into his eyes, tickles his cheekbones. “Unbelievable.”

“What,” hums Zuko with a quiet laugh.

“You’re fucking with me.” Sokka cards his hair from his face, jerks his head up to stare at Zuko, _accusing_. “I’m being vulnerable!” he cries, discordant with his grin. “I’m—I’m assembling a charcuterie board of my feelings for you! And you’re fucking with me! Why are you fucking with me?!”

“I wasn’t fucking with you the whole time,” Zuko contends, still plucking at the sheet. “I only started once you… said that stuff about kissing me. And holding my hand.”

“Uh-huh.” Sokka blinks slowly, shakes his head. His eyes trace the familiar, feathery shadows of Zuko’s eyelashes on his cheeks. “Unbelievable,” he huffs again. He scans the slope of Zuko’s nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow, and then he fixates on his restless fingers.

“Sokka,” says Zuko.

“Hm.” It’s a grunt, as deadpan of a grunt as he can manage.

And then Zuko’s hiking himself astride Sokka’s lap, eyes bottomless with mischief and his tongue poking between his teeth. “Confirm or deny that you wanna kiss me.”

Sokka’s hands have minds of their own, so they fit themselves around Zuko’s hips and his heart takes flight as he adamantly maintains, “ _Deny_. I deny it. You’re a little shit. Of course I deny it.”

“Oh.” Zuko smiles, wide and cheek-creasing like he never does, and lays his hands on Sokka’s shoulders. “But you said you like…” He coughs, probably to hold back a laugh. “Kissing me in _private_.”

“I know what I said.” Sokka trains his eyes resolutely on Zuko’s chest, only to decide its breadth is distracting. Disturbingly so. He looks up at Zuko, pinches his hip at the wryness he finds in his smile. “Are we… good?”

Zuko watches him openly, smile softening. He nods.

“And you like me?” Sokka adds quickly.

Zuko’s head tips to the side. He bunches the collar of Sokka’s shirt up in his hands, tugs Sokka forward as he leans in. “I made you wait,” he mumbles, “even when I knew.”

Sokka feels dizzy. He digs his fingertips into the base of Zuko’s spine. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I guess. But it’s okay! I was miserable. But it’s okay.”

Zuko huffs, lets Sokka’s collar go to hold him by the jaw. Sokka’s heart swells, constrained against the confines of his ribs, when Zuko kisses the very middle of his forehead, then hugs him close. Sokka perches his chin on Zuko’s shoulder.

Sokka’s hands roam up and down Zuko’s back for… he doesn’t know how long. But he feels rooted under Zuko’s weight, warm within his arms. He’d tell Zuko he could sit there for days, easily, but he’s used up his cheesiness quota for the night. “Hey,” says Sokka.

Zuko’s fingers tickle over the short hair at his nape, weave their way up higher.

Sokka plows on. “Remember when I said… I like kissing you in private?”

He feels the rumble of Zuko’s acknowledgement. “But—”

“I denied it,” Sokka agrees, pitiful. He noses into Zuko’s shoulder. “So can you ask me again?”

Cool air rushes to take Zuko’s place as he sits back. “No.” Sokka deflates. Zuko shrugs. “We can skip that step.” And while Sokka’s still registering those words, Zuko rocks onto his knees, kisses Sokka chastely on the lips.

Sokka breathes out deep, eyes falling shut. “Missed that,” he mutters.

Zuko smiles, close enough that he can feel it. “I missed you.”

Sokka stands in front of his open, designated kitchen cabinet. “Fuck,” he whispers. “No tortilla chips.”

Zuko’s by the door. “They already had tortilla chips.”

“ _Yes_ , but I _said_ I was going to get some, so I need to come back with _something_.”

Zuko stares blankly. “I don’t think anyone thought we were getting chips. And we’ve been gone an hour.”

Sokka rakes his fingers through his hair. “But I need—!”

Zuko marches up to his side, takes one look at Sokka’s shelves, and grabs an unopened bag of marshmallows, which he smacks into Sokka’s chest. It doesn’t hurt, but it does push an _oof_ out of Sokka.

Zuko’s at the door again. “Let’s go.”

They’re only going next door to say goodbye, anyhow. Zuko drove—his car is parked somewhere nearby, somewhere likely illegal—and they’re meant to go spend the night at his, even if his bed is half the size of Sokka’s (Sokka’d insisted it’d been too long since he last set foot in the serial killer room).

Sokka wrinkles his nose at the marshmallows, but eventually he knocks his cabinet shut, takes Zuko by the hand, and in the hall, instructs Zuko on how to slam the door shut just right.

Again, Toph answers the door. “You should’ve just stayed,” they say, hovering in the doorway and blockading them from the apartment. “Actually, it’s kind of gross that you came back.”

 _We didn’t have sex!_ Sokka wants to shout, but it’s like he can taste the tension in the room behind Toph’s back. The door to Katara and Toph’s room is shut, Suki’s knocking on it gently, and Aang’s pacing a trench into the floor. Mai, Yue, and Ty Lee are on the couch, oddly silent and still. Azula’s curled up in the armchair on her phone.

“What… happened?” murmurs Sokka.

Toph sighs. “He did it. For real.”

Sokka blinks.

Zuko starts, “Did wha—”

Toph raises their voice, aims the holler over their shoulder. “In front of _everyone_ , you fucking pinhead!”

Aang whips toward the door. “God, Sokka,” he breathes out, rushing over. “ _Sokka_. You know how to deal with rejection. Help me out here.”

Sokka’s eyes flit to the closed door, then to the living room. Katara is nowhere in sight. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Aang nods, frantic. “And… and I think the only reason I’m not, like, snotting my brains out crying is ‘cos everyone’s still here, so it’s just—sitting under the surface, building up, and I’m going to explode, like. Imminently.” He glances at Sokka and Zuko’s linked hands, and something light and warm passes over his countenance, but then it’s gone. “Sokka, _please_.”

Sokka’s dreams of a romantic reunion in Zuko’s starched twin bed are shattered. He squeezes Zuko’s hand before he lets it go, presses the marshmallows into Zuko’s grip, and takes Aang by the shoulders. “Suki?” he calls warily.

At the bedroom door, Suki turns, locks eyes with Sokka, and shakes her head. She waves them off with a swift flick of her hand.

“Okay,” Sokka says coolly, and he manhandles Aang—whose limbs seem to have turned to lead—into the hallway. He reaches for Toph’s wrist, gives it a soft tap goodbye, then turns to steer Aang next door. “Um,” he utters to Zuko, who’s idling, “Raincheck, baby?”

“You guys don’t have to ruin your night for me.” Aang looks down at both of them like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t worry, dude,” Zuko assures. And Aang’s face crumples, just a bit.

It’s how the three of them end up in Aang’s bed, a muted nature documentary draining the battery on Aang’s laptop. Aang’s passed out on his stomach, feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Zuko and Sokka sit on either side of him.

Zuko seems to spend a moment gauging the depth of Aang’s slumber. “What—”

Sokka cuts him off with a finger pressed to his lips. He gestures _shh_ against his own, and Zuko nods, then purses his lips to kiss Sokka’s fingertip before he can ease it off. Sokka thinks his heart shoots off and circles the moon.

 _Should I stay?_ mouths Zuko, nodding at Aang’s prone form.

Sokka tosses him a pillow.

Zuko falls asleep curled up in a ball at Aang’s side. Sokka watches him drift off, turns off the nightstand lamp. The obnoxious magenta lava lamp in the corner will have to stay on, though, the same way Sokka will have to attempt sleeping upright, because Aang’s hugging his thigh and that’s a peace he won’t disturb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... that was just a lil disgusting huh
> 
> 01 - sad songs in the summer (olivia o'brien)  
> 02 - dionysus (bts)  
> 03 - comfort crowd (conan gray)  
> 04 - tongue tied (grouplove)  
> 05 - as if it's your last (blackpink)  
> 06 - sweet night (v)  
> 07 - wuthering heights (kate bush)  
> 08 - automatic stop (the strokes)  
> 09 - duele el corazón (enrique iglesias ft. wisin)  
> 10 - trouble is a friend (lenka)  
> 11 - the lakes (taylor swift)  
> 12 - sliding doors (nilüfer yanya)  
> 13 - slump (stray kids)  
> 14 - this is me trying (taylor swift)
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://taotu.tumblr.com) :)


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